


Flipside of a Coin

by wyntera



Category: Hitman (Video Games), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassination, Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23531755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: Those are the rules. Back when he first joined D.E.R.R.I.E. (because like hell is he going to call it the Department of Elimination, Reconnaissance, Recovery of Intelligence and Espionage, what imbecile thought that was a good name for an assassin organization?), one of the first rules that was drilled into his head, after all the ones about making sure he didn’t end up dead in a ditch, was that agents do not meet their handlers and vice versa. It’s a good rule in theory. Keeping a healthy, professional distance from each other is probably for the best. There’s less chance of emotions clouding judgement, or grief over the inevitable; as good as Eddie knows he is, he can run the risks. What he does is dangerous. Either himself or someone he works with is going to die eventually. That’s just statistics. D.E.R.R.I.E. doesn’t want their assets to go and make friends, much less anything more.Unfortunately, it’s too late for that. Beverly is a friend. Mike is a friend. Richie is the best friend Eddie’s ever had.Far, far too late.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. Paris, France

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into clown town! Had this little thought about Eddie in a suit with a silenced pistol, and here we are. Expect there to be lots of talk about killing people, the typical violence you would expect from the Hitman franchise. The whole story is outlined so I'd expect this one to go fairly quick. Special shout out to ottariwar on Twitter for being a soundboard and always encouraging my wildest ideas. Let's do this!

Paris, France

\---

_“Good evening, Eddie Spaghetti–”_

“I told you not to call me that, dipshit. How many times do we have to go over this? Don’t use my name, for fuck’s sake–”

_“Ah, so you admit that your surname is, in fact, Spaghetti, I believe of the Italian Spaghetti’s, or perhaps Greek, but I would bet your branch of the Spaghetti family tree originates from Sicily–”_

“That is not my name! Fucking–can you focus for like, two seconds, just two measely seconds? Seriously, have you not taken your Adderall or Ritalin or whatever it is you’ve been prescribed? I sure hope you’ve got a doctor monitoring you somewhere and they’re giving you something strong because if you’re unmedicated this explains so much about your general demeanor–”

_“Eds, mental health is a serious issue! I thank you to not tease me, I’m very sensitive about this, I’m going to submit a complaint to HR, this is workplace bullying, descrimination at its finest–”_

“Oh my God. That’s rich, coming from you.”

_“That is what I am called, yes, glad we’re on the same page with at least one of the names in this relationship.”_

“Stop using my name, or variations of my name! What part of covert do you not get?”

_“The mission hasn’t even started yet! This is me, starting the mission, right now as we speak! You know, we could have avoided this argument and all the weird side-eyeing you’re getting from the driver if you would’ve put your earpiece in before you left the hotel like I asked you to, but no, you’re mister high maintenance with your need for things like privacy and decorum–”_

Eddie looks from the window toward the front seat only to catch the driver’s eyes glancing away in the rear view mirror. For perhaps the millionth time, Eddie wonders how exactly Richie does that. Does he somehow have a camera in the car he sent to pick Eddie up from the hotel? Is the driver secretly an agent, too? Is Richie a psychic? Or, is Richie just using the powers of logic and deduction to come to the very obvious conclusion that Eddie looks like a freaking lunatic ranting to himself in the backseat of a car?

Probably that last one, but he wouldn’t rule out any of the others.

_“We both know that as your handler, I’m going to call you by your dumb callsign for like ten minutes max, then switch back to your name because, one, I know your name and it’s just stupid to act like I don’t know who you are, we are literally the only people on this channel, I’ve checked; and two, callsigns are weird. You think they’re weird just as much as I do, don’t even try to deny it. I don’t know why you put up such a fuss every time when we could just skip the middleman. And, might I add, I don’t know why Stan—oh, pardon me, fuckin’ ‘Toucan,’ Jesus Christ, what a nerd—thought that birds were a good codename for agents, either. He doesn’t need to be dragging his birdwatching fetish into our wholesome assassin organization. Why couldn’t we just stick with numbers? It works for James Bond!”_

“What are you bitching for? You don’t even have to use a stupid codename!”

_“Ha! What you’re saying is that you agree that they’re stupid, because they ARE!”_

Breathing in and out for a count of ten, Eddie looks past his reflection in the window to the busy city street streaming past. Paris is as bustling as ever, and though Eddie hates to not be behind the wheel and in control, he is glad he won’t have to worry about parking tonight. It’s annoying he had to leave the Aston Martin back at the hotel, though. Such a fine machine left abandoned underground in a parking deck is just a shame. Overhead, searchlights slice through the inky blackness of the sky and Eddie’s gaze follows their curving arc. “Just address me properly and get on with it. I’ll be there soon.”

Richie lets out his own gusty sigh, but relents, keeping his sarcasm to a minimum. _“Whatever you say, Agent Kestrel._ ” There is a shift in tone, then, the one that lets Eddie know that his handler has flipped the switch from play to work mode, and Eddie can feel himself settle into his bones. It’s go time.

" _Y_ _our destination is the Paris fashion show by Sanguine, one of Europe’s leading couture brands. Your targets are Sanguine owner Viktor Novikov, a former oligarch turned fashion mogul, and his partner, Dalia Margolis, a retired supermodel. An iconic power couple on the global fashion scene, and two of the most dangerous people in the world.”_

“A power couple in the fashion world? Doesn’t sound too dangerous.”

_“You know Bev—I mean, Agent Cardinal, you know her and you still think that?”_

Eddie has to nod his head and concede that point. Bev is scarier than his last ten hits combined. “Fair enough. Why isn’t she handling this case, then? Seems like she would have better access than me.”

_“True, but she’s also recognizable enough in this crowd that she would be remembered. You’ll have to put in a little more effort to get inside, but people won’t be clamoring to take pictures of you just for attending the event. Which is a pity, because I must say, you look rah’vishing in that suit, dah’ling, just rah’vishing.”_

“Is that supposed to be Zsa Zsa Gabor?” Eddie asks, incredulous. “Jesus, man, that one needs work.”

_“Really? Damn. I thought it was good enough to go in the rotation. Anyway, turns out they aren’t the type to just cut a bitch for wearing last season’s bargain bin blouses. Novikov and Margolis are in fact the ringleaders of IAGO, an enigmatic spy ring that deals in the global elite’s most valuable secrets. Unscrupulous and opportunistic, IAGO has caused disastrous security leaks all over the globe. When Chrimean separatists caused a deadly meltdown at the Odessa nuclear power plant, IAGO gave them access to the plant’s security network. And when the Delgado drug cartel shot down the plane of President Hernandez and his family, IAGO provided the classified flight plans.”_

That had been, as Richie so lovingly referred to it, a cluster-fuck. Eddie hadn’t been assigned to any of the missions dealing with the aftermath of Hernandez’ assassination, but he knows it got ugly fast. Corruption aplenty. In fact, he’s pretty sure Mike is still down in Columbia dealing with the fallout right now. It’s for the best, really; Eddie never could stand the jungle. Too many mosquitoes, too many chances for malaria.

_“Now, Novikov and Margolis have obtained a NOC list of British undercover agents, which they plan to sell at a secret IAGO auction during the Sanguine show. So, our client, MI6, needs us to stop the ringleaders before the NOC list ends up in the wrong hands.”_

“MI6?” Eddie asks, frowning. “They hired us? Why aren’t they handling this themselves?”

_“It’s not my job to ask why, it’s Stan’s. But if I was to make an educated guess, I’d say because they don’t know who they can trust anymore. I mean, do you think they really know who leaked the list in the first place? My money’s on an inside job. Best to get an outside contractor to do the dirty work until they can clean house.”_

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “I hate that you’re probably right.”

_“Fuck yeah! I’m recording, that is recorded for posterity, I am right!”_

“I said probably. Probably right.”

_“The probably is silent, like the s and the z in rendezvous. Just there to bulk up the word score in Scrabble and give yourself some wiggle room like you didn’t just admit I’m right.”_ Eddie opens his mouth to refute that claim, but Richie is nothing if not a motormouth and carries on like a steam engine. _“And if spy agencies could keep their shit together, they wouldn’t need people like us. Be happy that their incompetence keeps us employed. Or, you know, enjoying our unique and interesting hobbies. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. The Sanguine show will be swarming with security, and Viktor Novikov will be the focus of everyone’s attention. Expect him to be in the spotlight. But despite his posturing, he is merely the money man. The real target is Dalia Margolis. Beautiful and brilliant, a nice one-two punch combo. She is a master manipulator and the true brains behind IAGO.”_

The car glides to a stop in front of the magnificent stone and wrought iron gates of Palais de Walewska. Eddie places his hand over the comforting weight of his Kruger within the hidden confines of his jacket, cards his fingers through his hair, and adjusts his black leather gloves so the fabric pulls tight against the web of his fingers. A valet moves to open Eddie’s door just as Richie is wrapping up his briefing.

_“Two targets. A highly public event. At first glance, an impossible task. Then again, I do know how you love a challenge.”_ Eddie can hear the way Richie’s smile curls around his words, like the tail of a pleased cat as it winds around its owner’s legs. _“Happy hunting, Kestrel.”_

Heavy synth and deep bass pours from the open palace doors as Eddie steps out of the car, the noise like his own heartbeat thrumming through his core. The party is already in full swing from the looks of things. A red carpet flanked by rows of decorative trees lit from below leads the eye to the grand entrance. Everyone is in their finest, a black tie affair, guests gliding here and there or gathered in clusters around the opulent fountain. Eddie, in his sleek and expensive black suit, blends right in.

There are a good number of cameras around, which he finds less than ideal. A reporter has taken up position by the fountain trying to get interviews with passing celebrities, her cameraman following her every move. He’s already angling his body away from the duo when Richie pipes up in his ear. _“Be sure to avoid the cameraman; the last thing we need is for your big doe eyes to be broadcast to the world.”_

“I know that,” Eddie replies, turning his head as if to look up at the impressive architecture. “We’ve talked about this. No back-seat driving.”

_“I’m not!”_

“I know what I’m doing.”

_“You’re right! Sorry! Sorry, of course, you are a master assassin and I am but a humble handler. Won’t happen again.”_

“Shut up.” He scans the crowd as he approaches the front. “No invite necessary?”

_“Not for the ground floor. You should have free access to the fashion show and party, but the auction is being held upstairs. No way there aren’t guards leading to the upper floors, and they’ll certainly be frisking even if you have an invite.”_

“Good to know.”

Beyond the entryway is the foyer, where banners hang displaying the Sanguine logo and headshots of Helmut Kreuger, the face of the fashion line. Eddie avoids the bouncer standing guard at the entrance to the gallery on the left and instead ducks into the grand ballroom. The space is nothing but monochromatic shades of gray and blue fading into shadowy corners, the open white marble having been converted into a raised runway. Models strut out from an illuminated opening that makes them appear as if emerging from the gates of Heaven. Or maybe the beam of a UFO. Yes, Eddie likes that visual better. Refracting light catches his eye; above the runway is an ornate set of chandeliers. Crystal shafts jut downward from the light rigging like hundred-thousand dollar stalactites. Squinting, he can just make out the movement of security overlooking the crowd from behind the glittering light.

_“You could do that, you know.”_

Eddie blinks at the non sequitur. “Do what?”

_“Modeling. Runway, glamour, fitness, swimsuit. Lingerie.”_ When Eddie doesn’t even deem to give that a response, Richie continues, _“If you need to find access behind the scenes, you could take the place of one of the models. You may not be as tall as Helmut there, but you’ve got the cheekbones.”_

“No, thanks.”

_“Come on! Indulge me. I can live my dreams of being a star vicariously through you. Or at least give me a new lockscreen for my phone.”_

Eddie tries not to make a face at the heavy make-up the models are sporting, solid bold black fading in a gradient up from around their eyes all the way to their hairlines. Eddie will never understand art. “You wanted to be a model?”

Richie lets out a barking laugh. _“Me? Please. I am not model-shaped. Pretty sure if I tried to walk a runway it would be less Project Runway, more Planet Earth. ‘And here, the baby moose takes its first wobbling steps, just minutes after birth.’”_

His David Attenborough voice is far better than his Zsa Zsa Gabor. Lucky for Eddie, he has had a few years to condition himself not to laugh when Richie pulls off a Voice to perfection. “A moose, huh? That tall?”

_“And disproportional. And I’ve got this wonky eye thing. Never would have made it in Milan.”_

Tall, gangly, and an abnormal eye. Eddie already knew the first one, but he adds the other two descriptors to the very small pile of facts he’s discerned about his handler’s appearance. Because for all that Eddie has known Richie and Richie has known Eddie, for all the missions they have completed together, going on four years’ worth now, the two have never met in-person.

Those are the rules. Back when he first joined D.E.R.R.I.E. (because like hell is he going to call it the Department of Elimination, Reconnaissance, Recovery of Intelligence and Espionage, what imbecile thought that was a good name for an assassin organization?), one of the first rules that was drilled into his head, after all the ones about making sure he didn’t end up dead in a ditch, was that agents do not meet their handlers and vice versa. It’s a good rule in theory. Keeping a healthy, professional distance from each other is probably for the best. There’s less chance of emotions clouding judgement, or grief over the inevitable; as good as Eddie knows he is, he can run the risks. What he does is dangerous. Either himself or someone he works with is going to die eventually. That’s just statistics. D.E.R.R.I.E. doesn’t want their assets to go and make friends, much less anything more.

Unfortunately, it’s too late for that. Beverly is a friend. Mike is a friend. Richie is the best friend Eddie’s ever had.

Far, far too late.

Eddie won’t point out Richie’s verbal misstep; he hoards these little nuggets of personal information like a dragon hissing from atop a pile of gold. “Well, go ahead and ruin my night. What’s your current lockscreen?” he asks instead, taking mental note of the circuit two of the security guards make around the runway.

_“That time with the wetsuit.”_

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie grumbles, rolling his eyes and earning a weird look from a socialite to his left. It’s too dark in here for anyone to notice any blushing that may or may not be happening on his face.

_“Best mission I ever monitored. You’re hot, Eduardo, what can I tell you.”_ Then Richie launches into his own off-key rendition of I’m Too Sexy, complete with a butchered German accent. The lyrics of Right Said Fred follow Eddie as he weaves through the crowd toward the side room where guests are emerging with glasses of wine and expensive cocktails. The bar takes up an entire wall. Snagging one of the bartender’s uniforms would be ideal, but Eddie isn’t really in the mood to play dress-up tonight. Besides, the event is packed. Those that are working look frazzled enough from the press of humanity.

Without sparing so much as a glance at the palace staff, Eddie strides calm and confident past the bar and into the small kitchen area behind the decorative back wall. Chefs are assembling canapes at breakneck speed while waiters bustle in and out, both groups snapping at each other, straining under the tension of such a high-profile event. They’re all too busy to notice him if he keeps moving. Across the kitchen is a swinging door that doesn’t look like a freezer so Eddie pushes through, then immediately steps back when he catches sight of security guards at the base of the stairs.

He needs to get up those stairs. Right.

Reaching out behind a waiter’s back, Eddie yanks hard on a platter of roasted beet and feta tartlets, sending them clattering to the floor.

_“...I shake my little tush on the catwalk–whoa!”_

The waiter jumps as if he’s been scalded. The chef in charge of plating whirls on him, furious. Suddenly, the kitchen is filled with a whirlwind of angry French, loud enough to get the attention of the guests in the bar as well as the security guards. Eddie holds his hands up and backs out of the way, through the back door, acting the part of a startled guest that just wants to get out of the way. As soon as the guards disappear through the kitchen door to break up the ensuing fight, Eddie turns to scale the stairs.

_“Oh, Eds.”_

Well, that certainly sounds disapproving. “What? And, again, not my name–codename–whatever.”

_“That was completely unnecessary. Have you never worked in the service industry?”_

Here we go. “Not this again, Rich.”

_“Those guys are being run ragged. Now they’re going to get written up, disciplined, maybe even fired, all because of a spilled tray that wasn’t even their fault.”_

Okay, maybe Richie has a point, but damn it. Eddie has a job to do. Funny how Richie has no qualms about Eddie killing people, but God forbid you tip anything less than twenty percent or make a restaurant stay open after closing. “I had to get past the guards.”

_“You could have tossed a coin as a distraction!”_

It’s all Eddie can do not to groan aloud. The coin thing. It’s always about the coin thing. “That is a stupid tactic. It has always been a stupid tactic, and it always will be a stupid tactic. People aren’t drawn to the sound of loose change like a homing beacon!”

_“It works! You’d realize that if you’d stop being a feral little garden gnome for five seconds and try–”_

“Garden gnome?! Fuck you! No. Absolutely not. People are dumb but they aren’t that dumb. Save your breath and stop suggesting it.”

_“Mark my words, one day you’ll see the wisdom of my coin-flipping ways.”_

The din from the show is somewhat muffled one floor up and the hall at the top of the stairs is remarkably empty. Striding down the corridor, Eddie takes a quick look into each room. They’re all filled with an excessive amount of fine furnishings, but there’s no sign of the auction or either of the targets. The guests and staff that he sees are too busy going about their business to pay him any mind. That being said, he won’t be able to pull the same stunt with any of the security up here. Plus, he would rather avoid anyone seeing him from here on out. Or, if they do see him, not to remember him. “We got an external way up here?”

_“End of the hall, open window, pipe on the right.”_

Sure enough, the hall ends in a gallery room with a large open window, and just outside is a sturdy downspout from the gutter system. Eddie doesn’t even halt his momentum as he climbs out the window and swings over to grasp the pipe. He is a big fan of old European construction; the buildings here are far more likely to be suited for impromptu climbing. As soon as his feet are level with the ledge of the next floor, he steps out and shimmies over to the closest window. “Convenient.”

_“That’s what I’m here for: to provide a stress-free assassination experience. If the targets have an office, it will be on that floor.”_

Eddie knows he’s found the right place when he discovers a corner room with an ostentatious desk placed prominently in the center. It’s the sort of desk that only a fashion mogul or a crime boss would choose for themself. There is a laptop facing the curving executive-style chair, open and streaming information that Eddie doesn’t immediately understand. “What am I looking at here?”

_“Looks like Margolis is going to run the auction from her laptop. This system will make sure the winning bid for the NOC list will be transferred securely into whatever offshore account they have set up for it. Do you see a dongle? USB? Anything?”_

There’s nothing plugged into the laptop itself. Eddie does a check of the desk, including jimmying open the locked bottom drawer, but other than a pair of silver fabric shears, he comes up empty. “No.”

_“...Shit. Okay. No problemo. She must have the NOC list on her. Well, you need to kill her anyway; you can check her pockets once she’s down. For now, you need to find her and get her alone.”_

“If the laptop isn’t working, will she have to come and fix it?” Eddie asks.

_“Yeah, probably, I mean, they want their money–”_

That’s all Eddie needs to hear. He slaps the laptop closed, turns, and chucks it out the open window.

There is a long beat of silence.

Then laughter.

_“Holy shit! I don’t know what I expected, but that wasn’t it! Fuck, fantastic. You never fail to entertain, Spaghetti. The comedic timing of that, just, perfection. This is just one of the top ten reasons you’re my favorite. Ha! You should have seen the way that thing cartwheeled! Like one of those videos where the kids tumble down a hill inside a tractor tire, only instead of bouncing at the bottom, the tire explodes into a million pieces. Also, do you realize what kind of information I could have pulled off that thing? Don’t get me wrong, I am fully invested in your brand of crazy, but I’m definitely going to have to edit my mission summary.”_

While Richie raves over the laptop, Eddie checks the two entryways to the office and shuts both doors, then fetches the fabric shears from the drawer. There’s a space in the corner between a standing cabinet and the wall that he can fit in and still have a clear view of the desk. “Glad you approve. You know you’ve got to warn me if you need intel beforehand.”

_“I know, I know. You’re like some sort of technology grim reaper. Hey, are those scissors?”_

“Fabric shears.”

_“Fancy scissors. I would say ten points but since they’re special, I’ll give you fifteen. Hey, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with scissors?”_

Eddie slots into the meager cover of the cabinet and grips the closed shears by the blades. “Actually, my mom wouldn’t even let me use scissors, and then only with supervision after I was twelve. She was too afraid I’d cut myself.”

The sigh that Richie releases is loud enough to cause noise distortion in Eddie’s ear. _“Fuck. Eds. We’ve talked about Mrs. K, at length so I’m going to be good and not go on a rant. But I gotta say, as much as I hate disparaging the woman who taught me what it means to be a man–”_

“Gross, dude!”

_“–your mom was seriously fucked up.”_

Shrugging, Eddie crouches down. “I’m aware.” And it just goes to show how far Eddie’s come in the past four years that he can accept that simple fact. There was a time when he would adamantly defend her every whim, no matter how much her actions hurt him. His mother was an open wound he protected with bared teeth and hackles raised. Still, he did everything he could to never let her influence slow him down: he attended his minimum required psych appointments, scored exemplary on all his evaluations, and knew exactly what to say to deflect interest in his past.

But he couldn’t hide from his handler. Not from Richie, who can detect vulnerability like a shark with blood in the water. Eddie wouldn’t be at this point in his life without many long, late-night discussions instigated by Richie and his dogged determination to get to the bottom of Eddie’s blind loyalty in a woman that did nothing but hold his head under the water. Not that it was easy. Richie didn’t know exactly what to say. In fact, most of the time he said a lot of stupid shit that was completely the wrong thing to say. But in the end, he’s the one that told Eddie what he needed to hear. That there are countless ways for a mother to abuse a son without ever leaving a visible mark.

Now isn’t the time to tap dance down memory lane. An assassination is no time to be morbid. “Don’t get me started on when I could use a steak knife,” Eddie adds, just to rile Richie up.

_“Are you serious? Did she cut your food for you, too? No, nope, I don’t want to know. You only own more knives now than all your other cutlery combined…”_

Eddie grins. “Only because you keep giving me more.”

_“Everyone knows that the best gifts are thoughtful and personal! Pretty sure I read that on Buzzfeed or something. I’m appealing to your interests. They come from the heart. What, would you rather I send flowers?”_

A noise filters through the closed door, movement coming closer. “Beep beep,” Eddie whispers. Richie falls silent at the code word; a little unorthodox, but Richie knows to cut all chatter the instant it’s uttered.

Just on the other side of the cabinet, the door opens and Dalia Margolis enters. Her heels clip sharp on the hardwood flooring. Slender and stylish in a black dress and pearls, she is every bit as beautiful as her reputation claims. But not quite cautious enough, leaving her security detail outside. She comes up short just before her desk, confused, her manicured nails lowering to tap at the space where her laptop should be. She looks left, then right.

Her face never has a chance to register surprise before Eddie flings the shears.

The dual blades find their mark with a dull thud as they bury into her chest all the way to the handles. Margolis is dead before her body hits the desk. Her corpse slumps to the floor. The hit is over in less than seven seconds.

_“Well done, Agent Kestrel. Fifteen points. Quick and clean.”_

Eddie steps over her sprawled legs to close the door then grimaces down at the dark stain slowly seeping into the rug spread under the desk. “Not entirely clean,” he counters. He yanks the shears free and tries not to gag at the warm scent of copper mixing with her perfume.

_“Please tell me you’re not—Eddie. Eddie, my love. Not again with the wet wipes. I ought to deduct points for this.”_

“The CDC estimates that 5.6 million workers in the healthcare industry and related occupations are at risk of occupational exposure to blood-borne pathogens, including human immunodeficiency virus, hepatitis B, and hepatitis C. And these are workers that are provided protections against infection! Do you think some poor housekeeper that’s going to have to go through this desk later is going to be protected from whatever Margolis might be infected with? And fabric shears are incredibly sharp as well as heavy. I mean, the evidence is right here, you saw how easy they sliced through–”

_“Yep, I got it, thank you, Doctor K. At least find the NOC list before you start hosing the place down?”_

“Shit, right.” He finds an unassuming black USB stick tucked in a black and silver clutch along with a cell phone. “Do we need the phone?”

_“Eh, couldn’t hurt. I’m always down for some light phone hacking to wind down the end of a long day. Bring the phone and break the dongle.”_

“You’re sure they don’t want this back in one piece?’

_“They don’t want those names getting out. The best way to keep that from happening is if they don’t exist in the first place.”_

Using the blunt end of the fabric shears, Eddie brings them down a half dozen times against the plastic casing around the USB drive until the piece of equipment lies in pieces. For good measure, he tosses the delicate insides out the window like he did the laptop. Task complete, he wipes the shears clean and places them back in the drawer, then scrubs his gloves of the few droplets of blood shining against the black leather. He can hear Richie muttering in his ear. “What?”

_“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just wondering if we could get Patty to hook you up with some industrial-grade wet wipes since you’re such a weirdo. We could get you something to carry them around in, just for you.”_

Eddie knows he’s going to regret this. “I used to carry around a fanny pack when I was a kid.”

_“OH MY GOD. Are you serious? How are you real? Are there pictures? Fuck, I bet there’s pictures. WAIT. WAIT! I got it! Tactical fanny pack.”_

Drowning out Richie’s musings is an art in which Eddie has become a master. He’d have to be if he wanted to ever get through a job without breaking down into a screaming fit every sixty feet with every idiotic thought that popped into Richie’s head and tumbled headfirst out of his mouth. His thoughts on the ultimate hitman fanny pack become white noise as Eddie heads down the twisting halls looking for his next target.

The music from the fashion show grows loud once again when he happens upon what looks like a construction area. Easing into the shadows behind crates draped in linens, he sees that he’s actually in the wings of the open runway ceiling. The security guards he saw monitoring the crowd have their backs to him, and a technician is hunkered down next to the wench for the light rigging. This might be a good place to take a shot at Novikov, but it would make for a tricky escape. “Do you have any idea where Novikov might be?”

_“This is his show, and the man is nothing if not a proud peacock. If he hasn’t come out to bask in the applause yet, he will soon. Why, got any ideas?”_

Eddie’s eyes dart from the guards, to the light system, to the technician, to a nearby fuse box. “A few.”

All it takes are a few flipped circuits to gain the technician’s attention. When he comes over to check the fuse box, a swift strike to the base of his neck knocks him unconscious. Eddie cradles his body down to the floor and drags him out of sight, snagging a wrench from his tool belt. Easy as pie. Now for the hard part.

The vantage-point for the guards is optimal for watching the party below, but the sweeping beams of light striking the crystals of the chandelier make it almost impossible to look directly across the opening. The glare makes for effective cover. Eddie tracks the pattern of the lights and waits for the right moment. On the next sweep, Eddie darts from his hiding spot out across the metal scaffolding that holds up the chandeliers to crouch next to the light rig wench.

A timer is hooked up to the wench that allows it to raise and lower at certain moments of the show. Now, electronics might be Richie’s area of expertise, but Eddie knows a thing or two about mechanics. He sets to work with wrench in hand, keeping an eye on the models still walking the runway fifty feet below. The show has to almost be over, right? How long do these things usually last, anyway?

_“What are you up to, Spaghetti-head?”_

Eddie gives a bolt one more good twist, then pockets the wrench. “A little light maintenance.”

_“...I can’t even tell if you meant to give that a double meaning or not, but I’ll give you props either way. Love me a punny man.”_

Exiting the venue is a lot easier than infiltrating. No one gives him a second look as he strolls back down the nearest staircase with all the confidence of a man who is right where he is meant to be. The security guards even give him a polite nod as he goes past. While he walks, Richie recaps his score. _“Okay, let’s see. We’ve got five points for tampering with electrical equipment, another five for the wench. A nonlethal take-down, that’s ten...I guess I’ll give you the distraction in the kitchen but I hold firm that it was lame, and shame on you for your methods. So...eh...seven? Seven’s good. And the scissors are another fifteen. Still got one target left, Eduardo.”_

From the speakers, an announcer encourages the crowd to give a round of applause to the head and heart of Sanguine. Viktor Novikov steps out onto the runway with microphone in hand, smiling wide, eyes partially hidden behind blue-tinted glasses. He gives a light wave to the crowd, the cameras, basking in the glow of attention. The rotating lights from the show stop in their arcs and turn to spotlight the man of the hour, and the timer on the wench cranks to raise the chandelier. 

Several loud metallic bangs echo through the hall. A rumble of fear rolls through the audience, quickly followed by gasps as the crystal spires overhead tilt and drop a foot. Someone screams. Then the whole crowd shrieks along with the loosened wench finally giving way under the strain. Novikov holds up a hand over his head to protect himself but nothing can stop the entire lighting system from crashing down onto the catwalk.

Panic ensues. Some people rush the stage to help while others run for the exits. The room is filled with the shutter-flash of cameras. Eddie avoids it all, already past the pandemonium of the ballroom before anyone sensed the impending disaster. He strolls through the foyer and joins the flow of guests out the main entrance, no one the wiser.

Richie lets out a low whistle, pleased. _“And so ends the illustrious career of Viktor Novikov. Now that’s what I call a showstopper! Bravo! Encore! Other Italian words of praise!”_

“Thought you’d like that,” Eddie says. The security at the front gate is scrambling. He can hear sirens on the way. Time to go.

_“You’re so thoughtful to provide tonight’s entertainment. And they say cool guys don’t look at explosions, well I guess cool assassins don’t look at falling chandeliers. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. Well done, Spaghetti! Now, let’s get down to the nitty gritty business of points. Death by crushing is always fun, but I did like the extra spin of rigging the wench. You put a little stank on it, very nice. That’s a solid thirty points. The real kicker isn’t the method, though, it’s the object used to crush. Jesus Christ, you got a property damage multiplier that’s going to send your score through the roof!”_

Eddie slips past the gate guard and the valet, both of which have been left engrossed by the chaos in the palace. He’s got a hot shower and a room service menu waiting on him back at the hotel. Tomorrow his handler will have a dossier delivered to his room with a new target for him to find. For now, it’s a fine night for a walk. A grin sneaks onto his face as he walks away from the scene, the constant thrum of Richie’s voice to keep him company.


	2. Miami, Florida

Miami, Florida

\---

Eddie has mixed feelings about Miami. The city is nice enough. Bright and colorful, lots of things to see and do. A robust, diverse populace, the sort of place where people can stand out and still fit in. Plenty of ways to be seen and even more ways to disappear. Miami appeals to him both personally and professionally.

And yet: Florida.

How Mike can tolerate Florida is a mystery that Eddie will never understand. Between the heat and the humidity, the mosquitoes, and did he mention that it’s Miami,  _ Florida? _ Home of the infamous and dangerous Florida Man? Eddie may or may not listen to a podcast specifically for the entertainment that is the Florida Man. And Mike chooses to live there! By his own volition!

Honestly, Eddie could handle the heat or the humidity each on their own, but not both. Maybe he’s just a New Englander through and through. His Maine man, as Richie likes to point out. Though, Eddie hasn’t been back to Maine in years. He’s based out of New York now, along with Beverly, because only New York City is a big enough town to warrant two agents and still have plenty of work for the both of them. He’s comfortable there in the city, at ease in the chaotic energy that is so different from the sleepy town he grew up in. All it takes is a few days back in New York for his accent to come back, and Richie will have to remind him to sand off the edges on his next mission.

He hasn’t been back in over a month now thanks to the hectic schedule D.E.R.R.I.E. is keeping him on. Five contracts in five weeks. A total of fourteen flights, sixteen different beds with varying degrees of comfort, plus two last-minute jobs that ate up what little free time he had hoped for. Eddie’s always been one to keep active but this seems excessive, even to him. When Eddie brought it up to Richie, his handler had agreed that things seemed awfully busy lately. But sometimes that’s just the way things go, right? When it rains, it pours, and other trite figures of speech. Stan’s been under a lot of pressure from the higher-ups in D.E.R.R.I.E., so of course he’s going to push through more work to his most trustworthy agent. But Richie had promised to look into it for him, even if just to ease his mind. Richie’s always good about things like that.

Something feels off, but Eddie can’t quite put his finger on what and why. A gut feeling. Maybe he should bring it up to Richie, too. He should. That’s what his handler is there for, right?

But he hasn’t, yet.

The roar of high-powered engines blot out all other noises for a few deafening seconds before they die back down, bringing back the chatter of race fans and the distant sound of waves crashing to shore. The annual Global Innovation motor race is scheduled for this afternoon, and it couldn’t be a nicer day for it. There is an energy in the air, anticipation, potential energy yearning to turn kinetic. It has people turning out by the thousands, crowding the streets and stands well before the start of the race.

Eddie is itching to find an excuse to sneak behind the scenes and get a look under the hood of one of those racecars, but there will be time for that later. Now, there’s a man in this crowd that owes him a drink.

He finds Mike Hanlon relaxing at a quaint little cafe table under a bright red umbrella, his chair parked at the perfect angle to watch the crowd on his right and the beautiful view of the Atlantic ocean on his left. His wardrobe fits right in with the Miami mood: a light orange and teal plaid button down, khaki shorts, sunglasses, sandals, and an offwhite Panama hat. The carefree ensemble hides a lot in plain sight. An injury, the cloth on Mike’s left side bulky and stretched over wrapped gauze near his ribs. The pocket of his khaki’s sinks heavy with the weight of his gun of choice. And Eddie would be willing to bet that the strap of leather wrapped around the base of Mike’s hat would make for an effective garotte under the right circumstances.

Agent Albatross is an unassuming assassin, for sure, but those make for the best kind.

The cocktail glass on the table in front of Mike is already halfway empty, bright blue frozen alcoholic slush oozing down the insides and condensation dripping rivulets to the white plastic tabletop. He spots Eddie’s dark form cutting through the crowd like a barracuda through water. “Kaspbrak! Over here!” Mike stands with a lazy grin. He yanks Eddie in for a hard hug as soon as he’s in grabbing range, patting his back with two hard thumps. “How you doin’, man? Couldn’t lighten up for one day, could you?”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie demands, his dimples betraying the real feelings behind his angry scowl.

Mike gestures to Eddie’s outfit. “Do you own anything that isn’t a shade of black?”

“Hey, hey, this is dark navy,” he replies, pinching the fabric of his polo. “And the pants are light gray. They’re fashionable.” So what if this is the most colorful outfit in his suitcase? Mike doesn’t need to know that. “Bev still coming?”

“She’ll be here,” Mike says. Eddie takes one of the two empty chairs left at the table, the one that faces the wide street that has been blocked off for the start/finish line of the race. It gives him the best view of the podium, the garage, the overpass that lets pedestrians cross over the racing action, and everyone in between. Settling back with his drink, Mike tips down his sunshades and gives Eddie a more thorough once-over. The same instinctive check that Eddie gave Mike, spotting both weapons and injuries. “Other than dressing like a Bruce Wayne wannabe, you’re looking good. Paris treat you right?”

Eddie shrugs. “No complaints. Well, other than the traffic. And there were tourists, just, everywhere. Is it the time of year when schools go on trips there or something? Must be, because it’s crawling with teenagers. And then, at the hotel there was this douchey bellhop that tried to take my suitcase when I specifically told him I could handle it–”

The other man laughs. “Yeah, no complaints at all.”

“Shut up,” Eddie lowers his own dark sunglasses enough for Mike to see where his gaze lingers on his injured side. “You alright?”

Mike shifts in his chair to adjust position, the faintest of grunts escaping his chest, and pastes on a smile that’s pained around the edges. “Just some light stabbing between friends.”

“Shit. You had it looked at?”

“Of course I have. What do you take me for, an amateur?” He lifts his arm just enough to tug loose the sleeve and pat gingerly at his side. “I was wearing body armor but I wasn’t prepared for the bastard to come at me with a machete.”

Eddie grimaces. “Shit,” he says again, because it bears repeating. “Santa Fortuna?”

“You know it. D.E.R.R.I.E. had me going after the Delgados, right to the source. They’ve got this compound out in the jungle where they manufacture cocaine. Oh, excuse me, they  _ had  _ a compound.” Mike allows himself a smug little smile at a job well-done before it drops with another wince. “A damn miracle I got out of there with just this, though. The place was crawling with street soldiers. Even the cocoa field workers were armed to the teeth. This one guy came at me with a shovel.” Mike leans forward just enough to hiss, “And it rained every damn second I was there.”

“Shouldn’t you be used to it, living here?” Eddie asks, gesturing at the surf and sand. “Hurricanes all the time?”

Mike scoffs, dismissive. “It’s not the same, man.”

A waiter comes by with a menu that Eddie begs off, but Mike happily orders another margarita and a club sandwich for them both. “No, no arguing, I still owe you for the time with the guy and the thing. You’re eating something, too, I don’t want to hear it,” Mike says. “Come on, tell the man your drink.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but relents. “Bare knuckle boxer.”

They watch the waiter hesitate a moment before nodding and heading off with their orders. Mike shakes his head. “You still drink that shit?”

“It’s my summer beverage of choice,” is Eddie’s dry reply. “Some of us like something with a little more kick than the average watered-down cocktail. And how dare you make me succumb to peer pressure. Here I was, trying to be upstanding, responsible–”

“I can tell your handler’s been riling you up, you always get this way after talking to him.”

Eddie’s jaw snaps shut and he narrows his eyes at Mike in warning. “I am not riled up.”

“You’re not  _ not  _ riled up,” Mike counters. “Man, it’s a shame I can’t listen in on a mission. If everything you say about this guy is true, I bet it makes for some high quality entertainment. He sounds like a hoot.”

“A hoot? Who says that? A hoot,” Eddie sneers, feeling heat creep up his neck. “Well, it’s a good thing you can’t listen in, and you can keep your mocking little opinions to yourself–”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Mike replies, waving him off. Eddie wants to kick him but the man is already injured. “So, tell me what brings you through Miami. Between jobs?”

Part of Eddie still wants to argue; maybe Richie is rubbing off on him. No. No, he knows himself, he just likes to argue. Richie just makes the arguing a lot more fun. Lucky for Mike, a bigger part of Eddie wants to change the subject to something less embarrassing, so he embraces the switch. “Sierra and Robert Knox.”

Mike hums in acknowledgement, nodding. “Kronstadt Industries. What is he, the owner?”

“CEO.”

“Yeah, they’re deep into automation and robotics, I’m familiar with them. What’s their deal?”

“Plenty. Corporations, you know. But Knox has been providing drones for some nasty despots to use against peaceful protestors, and he’s started testing their new robotic prototypes on civilians overseas.”

Mike opens his mouth but stalls on his words, too disgusted to reply at first. “Oh, that’s just not right. Jesus. Now I’m mad I won’t get to take a crack at him.” He huffs and drains the rest of his glass, setting it down just as their waiter returns with two fresh drinks. “Ah, thank you.” He waits until the server is out of earshot before adding, “Sierra’s the daughter, right? The wild one?”

“Rebellious, I’d call it, but with a heavy superiority complex,” Eddie replies. “In charge of finances for Kronstadt, and lead driver for their race team. She’s in just as deep as her father, but she’s also got some dirty dealings going on the side. Enough to earn herself a blackmailer, anyway. She’s supposed to meet with him this afternoon; that’s how I’ll get close.”

Mike frowns at Eddie from across the table, the glare of the sun on his glasses hiding his eyes. “So what, D.E.R.R.I.E. sends you down to do a job on my front doorstep? I know I’m injured but I’m not out of the game, you know. Why’d they hand this off to you if I’m already here?”

The question brings Eddie up short. It does seem odd that they would drag Eddie all the way to Miami to do a job Mike could do in an afternoon. Just like it had felt weird to send Eddie to a fashion show. Sure, he’s trained to be adaptable, but some things just make sense. This doesn’t. “I don’t know, Mike. I’m sure they’ve got their reasons.”

That rings hollow even to his own ears, and Mike sure doesn’t believe it either. “D.E.R.R.I.E. may have their reasons, but that doesn’t mean they’re good ones.”

“What do you mean?”

Mike leans in across the table, putting pressure on his injury, so he can talk low enough for only Eddie to hear. “Like, how far can loyalty really go in an organization that does what we do? That keeps everything secret, even among its own people? They don’t like that we meet up, you know.”

“My handler mentioned it.”

“So did mine. He was warned we need to keep our distance. And I get it, what they’re saying, about how connections can be a liability. But we’re human, too, you know?” He eases back, casting his eyes around the crowd. “Besides, I trust you and Bev a hell of a lot more than I trust some anonymous shadow group, no matter how much money they wire into my bank account.”

The muscles in Eddie’s jaw clench as does his own scan of the crowd. “Yeah. I hear you.” 

Nothing Mike’s saying is different than the thoughts that have been bouncing around Eddie’s own mind for a while now. Eddie hates it. He likes things to be ordered, and clear. He likes being in control of his life but having the security of someone watching out for him. He likes knowing that the company he works for is, while maybe not  _ good, _ is at least in the morally light-gray area. What he doesn’t like is people he doesn’t know making decisions about his life and choosing who he does and does not associate with. “We’re pawns to them, Mike. That’s what people like us are. Pawns in a game where we don’t get to see the board.”

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t be, is all I’m saying,” Mike replies. There’s a pregnant pause, then he huffs out a small laugh. “God, you sounded like my handler there for a minute. He talks like that. All cryptic metaphors and prose.”

“That should be right up your alley, then, eh, Librarian?” Eddie asks, glad for a reason to tease. He and Richie get a kick out of all the random names the agents have picked up over the years. Kestrel may be his official callsign but his kills have been attributed to a number of aliases, mostly named by the criminal underworld. That’s how Eddie became known as the Analyst, the Doctor, the Surgeon, Doctor K, and Richie’s personal favorite, the Honey Badger. Eddie is convinced that the last one is somehow Richie’s doing, but he has no proof and Richie won’t confirm or deny.

“I don’t know why that name had to stick,” Mike groans, tipping his head back to the flawless sky. “You throw one guy out a library window…”

Eddie laughs. “You’d make a great librarian. Super helpful, reads too much, great at silencing loud people.”

“My handler and I have a book club.”

“Book club for two?”

“We could let you in, but you don’t strike me as much of a reader.”

“Hey! What the fuck, I read! Let me guess, you two are the type that think audiobooks don’t count. Well, fuck you, man, I’m busy, I’ve got shit to do, we don’t all have time to sit around with a physical book–”

“Good to see I didn’t miss much.”

Beverly Marsh glides up to their table in all her glory, floral skirt billowing in the sea breeze around her legs. Her fiery red hair is trying to escape from beneath a giant sun hat, and her equally giant sunglasses are the sort of thing he’d expect to see on Instagram. The handbag on her arm probably costs more than Eddie’s whole outfit, and that’s including his designer watch, his Kruger, and his combat knife.

She’s all smiles as Mike and Eddie stand to greet her like old friends, exchanging hugs, pressing kisses to each others’ cheeks. Just the sort of trust and friendship D.E.R.R.I.E. would look down upon. Something hot and defiant twists inside as he smiles and holds out her chair for her. “It’s good to see you, too, Bev. How’s Tom?”

“Still six feet under,” Bev quips, flashing her teeth in a predator’s grin. How far she’s come since the days when her ex-husband made her feel like prey. She made sure that Tom Rogan was Agent Cardinal’s first kill. “The offer still stands on Myra.”

Eddie sighs, closing his eyes. There’s only one person that has offered to kill his ex-wife more times than Beverly. Richie is joking. He thinks. Maybe. “Yes, I know, and I appreciate your enthusiasm. If I ever change my mind, you’ll be the first I call.”

Bev winks at him, then lets out a squeak, pressing her fingers to her ear. “Oh! Hold on! I’ll talk to you later, okay? Yeah. Yeah, I will. I will! ‘Kay, bye.”

She slides the communicator off her ear and drops it into her purse. “Sorry, almost forgot. My handler says hi, by the way, and that he hopes we have a lovely lunch, and that I need to not kill your ex-wife because she’s not bothering anyone and that would be mean.”

“Your handler is too nice,” Mike states, shaking his head. “How did he end up in a business like this? He should be working with grannies or orphans or something.”

“He’s the sweetest,” Bev agrees.

“It’s disgusting,” Eddie adds, earning him the least subtle glare in Bev’s arsenal.

“He’s the best handler in the world, and if you’re not nice to him I’ll shiv you, mark my words Kaspbrak.” She crosses her legs so the point of her heels cuts towards his knees and she leans an elbow against the back of her chair, a lounging tiger in her domain. “Now someone get me a drink so we can get this party started.”

They meet up like this from time to time, Eddie and Mike and Bev. The first time had been purely strategic, Eddie in dire need of intel on a target and running out of time, a hit against an organization that both Bev and Mike had dealt with before. All the subsequent meetings have been more of the same; at least, that’s what they would say if anyone asked. In reality, it turns out that they just really like hanging out together. Eddie likes Mike and Bev, and they like him, which kind of blows his mind. He knows he can be particular. Difficult. A pain in the ass, Richie would add. The other agents in D.E.R.R.I.E. avoid Eddie like he’s carrying a communicable disease. He never thought the world of assassination would feel like being back in middle school, but apparently even this turns into a popularity contest. And for reasons Eddie doesn’t fully understand, Mike and Bev are just as much outcasts as he is.

He likes it better that way.

So, the three of them carve time into their hectic schedules to have these little get-togethers, against orders from the top. No handlers listening in, no agendas. Just three hitmen talking shop and sharing the latest gossip. Their own little club.

By the time Mike’s forced Eddie to eat half a sandwich, Bev is on her second martini and plowing through the tale of her latest hit in Morocco. “Getting into the Swedish Consulate might have been one of the easiest infiltrations I can remember. Honestly, their security is laughable. I was in and out in five minutes and a security guard held a door open for me.”

“They’re a nice people,” Mike offers, spearing a pickle with the toothpick from his sandwich.

“Even if they let a dickbag like Claus Strandberg hide out there to avoid extradition,” Eddie adds.

Bev inspects her well-manicured nails with a smirk. “Well, that problem is taken care of. But, we did have something new happen. Have you guys had any problems with interference in your communicators lately?”

“Interference?” Eddie asks. “What kind of interference?”

“Distortion, or disconnecting sometimes. Picking up other voices.”

Mike frowns into the middle distance, thinking. “That shouldn’t be possible, not with the technology Patty’s using.”

“Well, something’s causing it, because I kept getting weird feedback,” Bev replies, crossing her arms and drumming her nails against her bicep. “It was the weirdest thing. My handler’s voice warped in and out, and then I heard music, and laughter.”

Eddie blinks. “What, are we picking up radio waves now? I get enough chatter on the communicator from my handler, I don’t need more.”

Bev shakes her head. “It was more like...I don’t know. Creepy. Like you’d hear in a horror movie. Kind of like carnival music.”

“Ugh, straight out of my nightmares,” Eddie huffs. “You sure it wasn’t just ambient music getting amplified? That sort of thing can happen.”

“It wasn’t anything like that. We checked. And the worst part is, my handler couldn’t hear it. Like, at all. He could hear me talking but I couldn’t hear him respond, just this demonic sounding laughter. I thought I was going crazy.”

“Did you tell Patty?” Mike asks. “You need to turn everything over to her–”

Bev rolls her eyes, Eddie only just stopping himself from repeating the gesture. Of the three of them, Mike may be the most tech savvy, but Eddie has his suspicions that Mike’s just really good at faking it until he makes it. “Yes, Dad, I already traded the equipment out just in case mine was tampered with. The Magpie already took it apart but couldn’t find anything abnormal. And if anyone is going to figure out what’s wrong, it’ll be her.”

“It was probably just a fluke,” Mike assures her. “Sometimes these things happen, you know? Electric fields play all sorts of havoc on equipment. If we have anything similar happen, we’ll let Patty know.”

Beverly presses her lips together in a thin line. “There’s something else that’s bothering me. We’ve had problems with D.E.R.R.I.E.’s reliability.”

Despite the afternoon heat, something cold trickles up Eddie’s spine. “What do you mean, reliability?”

“My handler says the last few weeks the intel they’ve sent for targets have all been faulty.”

“Mine did, too,” Mike says, sitting up with a grunt as the movement shifts his wound. He leans his weight onto his elbow on the table. “He’s been spending so much time double and triple checking everything D.E.R.R.I.E. sends him. They’ve sent us information that is just flat out wrong. The sort of shit that’ll get me killed. We got in this huge argument in Columbia over it, because I thought he’d been slacking on his own research. I felt awful after the fact; he wasn’t to blame, but he’s got this whole guilt thing–anyway, that’s not important. I think D.E.R.R.I.E.’s been leaving our handlers high and dry when it comes to support.”

“The same thing happened to us!” Bev exclaims. “Jesus, D.E.R.R.I.E. sent us a dossier on a client that was littered with inaccuracies! If B–If my handler wasn’t so diligent, I would have been walking into my own death, no question.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what’s going on with them, but it feels like things are falling apart. What about you, Eddie?”

“Nothing quite like that,” he admits. Richie hasn’t mentioned getting any wrong intel from their superiors, but it’s also the sort of thing that Richie might not see the need to bring up. He knows that Eddie has a tendency to fixate on things going wrong; it would be just like him to keep this to himself so Eddie wouldn’t worry. If anything has been a problem, Richie’s done a good job of keeping it quiet. “Mostly I’ve just been overworked.”

Two sets of eyebrows fly upward. “What? You?” Bev chirps.

Mike makes a show of covering his mouth. “No, I don’t believe it.”

“Shut up,” Eddie gripes. “I get it, I’m a workaholic, I’m married to the job, yeah yeah, I’ve heard it all before. You’re not original.”

Beverly giggles and waves him off. “We’re sorry, go on.”

“My point is, it’s exhausting. I’m going to be running on fumes soon, and there doesn’t seem to be any sign of stopping. If this keeps up I’m bound to make a mistake, and I can’t afford to be making mistakes.”

“We have all been running ragged, lately,” Mike agrees, putting a protective hand over his ribs.

“Maybe you should take a vacation—oh, I didn’t know your face could look like that,” Bev says as Eddie’s expression does something truly spectacular. “What would you call that, Mister Librarian?”

Mike gives a considerate hum. “Let’s say ‘aghast,’ that sounds pretty accurate.”

“A  _ vacation?  _ Are you serious right now?” It’s like they don’t know him at all. “No, it’s fine, I’m fine, perfectly healthy. Things are crazy right now, but that happens sometimes. I go to exotic locales on an almost weekly basis, I do not need a vacation.”

“Sounds like something a man who needs a vacation would say,” Mike quips.

Eddie sends him a flat look. “You guys’ problems are more pressing. Next time Stan checks in with us, we’ll bring up the faulty intel. Knowing him, he already knows and has fired whoever’s been fucking things up in the first place. And Patty will take care of the communications issue, which I’m sure is nothing.” He pauses, then adds, “But if it comes up again, be sure to let us know.”

“Will do, Doctor K,” Bev replies, giving a little salute.

God, Bev and Richie would be thick as thieves if they were ever paired together. He counts himself lucky that he won’t have to witness that chaos in action.

Eddie lets out a gusty breath. Just the thought of it is enough to exhaust him. “How’s your day job? Anything interesting in the fashion world?”

“Other than you offing a giant in the industry?” Bev asks with a laugh. “Don’t act like you know the first thing about fashion.”

“I’m picking up some things. For example, did you know fabric shears can puncture the sternum?”

Mike smirks. “Nice.”

Bev glares at them both. “Anyway. Things have been going well. I’m working on a new line for the fall. And since the Embassy thing took less than an hour I had a whole afternoon to wander around Marrakesh. The bazaar there is full of stalls that sell one-of-a-kind fabrics, by the bolt. I picked up a few things I’m going to play with. This one batik silk is just yummy. Cobalt blue, absolutely perfect for a client I’ve got. I think it will make a good dress for the Emmys.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “An A-lister? Do we get to know who?”

“I’m not supposed to bring it up,” Bev drawls, coy. “But I don’t think Mrs. Chastain would mind letting it slip to my best buds.” The boys make all the appropriate noises of approval, despite the fact that they’ve all met their fair share of famous people, from celebrities to royalty. Having these interactions in their normal civilian lives makes it seem special. Especially since they’re not killing them. “My handler is so jealous. I think he’s got a bit of a crush on her.”

“Maybe you can get her autograph for him.”

Mike is too busy draining the last of his margarita to notice, but Eddie catches the way Bev’s mouth turns down at the suggestion. Her eyes flit away to the crowd. “That would be an interesting conversation, wouldn’t it? ‘Excuse me, Mrs. Chastain? Could you sign this? Oh, no, not for me; it’s for my handler, this guy I’ve never met but would love to meet you. Interested?’”

“You could say it’s for your friend,” Eddie tries instead, then backtracks when her face pinches even more. “Or, not! If he wanted an autograph so bad, he’d ask. He’s got more important things to worry about, anyway, right?”

“It would make him happy, probably,” Bev mutters.

Eddie holds out a hand to Bev, wiggling until she links her fingers with his. “I don’t think she’s any competition, Bev.”

“You guys look a lot alike, did you notice? Could be sisters,” Mike chimes in, having clearly lost the thread of the conversation. He blanches when Bev and Eddie level him with withering stares. “What?”

“How is it that Eddie has a better grasp on relationships than you?”

Mike lets out an indignant squawk and Eddie sighs. “I’m going to choose not to be offended by that. How many of those margaritas have you had, Mike?”

“Too many or not enough,” is his reply, already flagging down a waiter and pointing to his empty glass and mouthing a thank you his way.

She must decide Mike isn’t worth the hassle of bringing up to speed, because Bev turns more fully toward Eddie. “It’s bullshit that we can’t meet our handlers. Like, me and–we have a real connection. We’re close. You know what it’s like.”

Eddie picks up his drink, already not liking where this is headed. “We’re friends, sure.”

“Oh please,” Bev says. “You and your handler are practically married.”

Okay, well, that is not what makes him choke on his drink, no matter how it looks, and Mike can stop laughing any time now. One coughing fit later, Eddie squints watery eyes at Bev. “We are not practically married, what the fuck?”

Bev starts counting off her fingers one by one. “You go on and on about how amazing he is every chance you get, he’s funny and smart and apparently the best handler according to your extremely biased opinion, you’re always telling us some stupid joke or story he told you to get you to laugh, you’d trust him with your life–”

“He also annoys the shit out of me on a daily basis! We bicker constantly!”

“Like an old married couple!” Bev ticks off another finger, like it’s a point in her favor. “Not to mention a certain confession you made–”

“I was _ drunk.” _

“–where you went on and on about how sexy his voice is. When you found out he speaks French, you claimed you’d found religion.”

Eddie chops his free hand through the air. “Again! I was drunk! You can’t hold my words against me when I was impared!”

“Hush. We’re all friends here; this is a safe space.” She squeezes the hand still tangled with her own. “The point is, I’m sure you want to meet him just as much as I want to meet my handler. The fact that we can’t meet them—can’t even use their names—is ridiculous! It’s like, here’s this person I wouldn’t trade for anything, but I wouldn’t even know his face in a crowd. He could be ten feet away and I’d never know. And that sucks.”

“It’s for the best that we don’t know them,” Mike says, though he sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than them.

“Is it?” Bev counters. “Really? Just because things went wrong one time–”

“That one time was enough to get an agent killed,” Mike points out.

The table falls silent at that, because there really is no arguing that point; they’ve talked this subject into the ground enough times, they know the stories. 

Trashmouth. Not a bird’s callsign, like the rest of Stan’s flock. Rumor has it he operated before Stan was named a director, that they even worked together. He didn’t even have Agent tacked on at the beginning of his name. Just Trashmouth.

Very little concrete information exists about the man himself, almost everything about him coming through word-of-mouth. A hitman with a short but prolific career. A man that could command a room in one moment and practically disappear without a trace the next. Loud and brash, just cocky enough to be memorable, with a flair for the dramatic and endless creativity. Assassination was an art and he was a master. One of the best field operatives in the game. An untold number of kills to his name. A legend among their kind.

The story goes that at the height of his career, Trashmouth was betrayed by his handler. He was listed as killed in action. Some accounts claim he was tortured. Others say they never recovered a body. His handler used D.E.R.R.I.E. resources to flee and escape punishment. Trashmouth’s story is considered a cautionary tale among agents with one loud, inescapable message: trust can get you killed.

For the longest time, Eddie didn’t think Trashmouth was a real person. No one is that good. No one. He had to be some sort of amalgamation of past agents, people making assumptions and exaggerating stories until they built up this man that was bigger than reality, then added a tragic ending to put just the right amount of fear into new recruits. Eddie remained unconvinced even when he stumbled upon some old D.E.R.R.I.E. files with references to an operative known as Trashmouth; there was hardly any information in the document that wasn’t redacted. Not even second-hand confirmation by Bev and Mike’s handlers was enough proof. Bev said her handler actually cried when she finally got the courage to ask, and he offered little details. They were apparently friends.

When Eddie broached the subject with his handler, Richie shut the conversation down. It was one of their first real arguments. After a screaming match that left Eddie feeling like he was suffering from hearing loss, Richie didn’t speak to Eddie for five days. It was the longest they had gone without communication since Eddie became an agent. Then Richie bounced back into Eddie’s ear with the next mission as if their last interaction never happened.

Eddie had been happy to drop it, for Richie’s sake, but that’s how Eddie knew the stories had to be true. He can recognize a man in mourning. Maybe Richie lost a friend, too.

Bev brings his thoughts back to the present with a long sigh. “I know it’s sad. I get it, really, I do. But whatever happened to Trashmouth doesn’t have to happen to us.”

“The rules are for our safety,” Mike says, sounding even less invested than before. He glances up from his glass. “That being said, we’ve, uh, talked about it, you know? Me and my handler. Meeting.”

“Yeah?” Bev prompts.

“Yeah. Never could commit to it, and now things seem too crazy to try. But, yeah, sometime down the line, we’d like to. Somewhere neutral. Like, just to talk.” He laughs out a humorless puff of air. “You don’t exactly run into people in the line at Starbucks that just happen to be in our line of work. The friendship pool for hitmen is already pretty shallow. It would be nice to meet him.”

“I want to meet my handler,” Eddie admits. He can tell he’s blushing already, but fuck it, he never was good at controlling that. “It’s a risk. A huge risk. But I can’t imagine him ever being the type of person that would purposefully hurt me, or turn his back on us. I want you guys to meet him, too. I wish we didn’t have to keep all these walls up, all the time. It’s exhausting.”

“Maybe we could talk to Stan. He’s directly in charge of us, he has our best interests at heart. Maybe if we explain to him how we feel about all this, he’ll adjust the rules. But, you guys feel it too, right?” Bev asks, her voice turning soft and hopeful. “Like, we’re stronger together than we are apart.”

Eddie remembers Paris, the wild laughter Richie let fly when Eddie threw that laptop out of a third floor window. Unbridled joy. Eddie had ached, wondering what Richie’s face looked like in that moment. “Maybe.”

Just over Bev’s shoulder, a flash of pink catches Eddie’s eye. He leans to his left, and yep, time to go. “Shit.” He skulls the remnants of his drink and clunks the empty glass back onto the table. “I hate to leave on a down note, but duty calls.”

“You lasted longer than I thought,” Mike says as they all get to their feet to give Eddie a parting hug. “Good to see you, man.”

“Be safe,” Bev adds. She slips a folding knife into his pocket and brushes a kiss against his cheekbone. “Found it in Marrakesh and thought you’d like it. Try not to lose this one in someone’s liver.”

“That was one time,” Eddie counters. “I’ll give you a call in a few days. You losers stay safe, too.”

Bev laughs, clear as a bell. “Who you callin’ losers, loser?”

Eddie waves and heads off into the crowd, now thick with people as the start of the race draws near. He has to shoulder his way through a group milling around a concession stand, and he curses that he’s not a few inches taller just so he can see over the heads of those gathered by the fence. But, there, he spots his mark.

Just now emerging from behind the northern grandstand, decked out in pink foam, magenta tights, and feathers galore. The flamingo mascot.

Fuck, Richie is going to be merciless. Why did Sierra Knox’s blackmailer have to be a flamingo mascot?

No use putting it off. As Eddie makes his way down the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the man in bright pink, he pulls his communicator out of his pocket. Flicking it online, he slips it in his ear. “You on?”

_ “For you, babe? I’m always on,” _ Richie replies without missing a beat.  _ “Sorry you had to cut your lunch date short. Have a good time? Get any juicy gossip?” _

“You know it. Nothing but the best water-cooler talk.”

_ “Don’t lie, I know you three get up to no good. Out drinking and dancing at the club. Doing lines off other hitmen’s asses. Leaving me at home, slaving away over a hot stove with our eleven children–” _

“Eleven? Jesus Christ, Rich, I’m pretty sure I’d have gotten the snip after ten.”

Richie lets out a snorting laugh that has Eddie grinning.  _ “How responsible of you. You got the mark?” _

The head of the flamingo outfit protrudes a good foot and a half higher than the rest of the crowd, so the mascot’s progress is easy to follow. “Yeah, I’ve got him. He’s headed toward the hotel on the other side of the racing paddocks. Sierra should be meeting him in the parking garage. I’m crossing the aerial walkway now.”

_ “Do you have enough time to intercept him?” _

“He’s wearing giant bird feet, I think I can outpace him.”

There is a beat of silence that goes on a little too long. Then an annoying little snicker.  _ “Oh my God.” _

“Richie. Don’t.”

_ “Oh. My God. I just saw it. You know, I’ve heard that pink is coming back in style, but I think it never left. It is in vogue. But what a vibrant pink this is! Magenta? Or is it bubble gum? Hard to tell. Either way, it’s going to look fantastic with your skin tone. Maybe I should commission Bev to make you a new suit. Really make a statement. Damn, the shorts on that thing go all the way up, don’t they–holy shit, are those tights?! Is this my birthday? Did I forget, and you get me the best birthday present ever? Eds, you shouldn’t have!” _

The flamingo mascot pauses to wave for a family taking pictures, then ducks down the alley between the garages and the back of the hotel. “I fucking hate you,” Eddie grumbles, pulling his new blade from his pocket and following. “I better get so many points for this.”


	3. Sapienza, Italy

Sapienza, Italy

\---

“How much longer do I need to wait here?”

_ “I can’t say for sure. This asshole is taking his sweet time, today. Maybe half an hour.” _

Eddie sighs loud enough for the noise to transmit over his communicator.

_ “What’s wrong?” _

“I’m bored. This is boring.”

He doesn’t know what Richie looks like, but Eddie can imagine the man shaking his head with amusement.  _ “You are the only guy I know that can lounge in an idyllic seaside village in one of the most beautiful regions of the world and somehow find a way to be unsatisfied, you demanding little demon.” _

“Oh, shut up. You’ve been humming  _ Sledgehammer  _ under your breath for the last hour; you’re bored out of your mind, too.”

_ “Fuck, you’re right, I’m dying over here. These people are as dull as dishwater. As soon as I get confirmation that the target’s moving into position, you can move out. And cut me some slack, I’ve had Peter Gabriel stuck in my head for a fucking week. Hey, did you know that Sledgehammer is MTV’s most played music video of all time.” _

“You’ve fallen down an internet rabbit hole, haven’t you?”

_ “Little bit. Come on, Sapienza is like, full of culture and shit. There’s got to be something interesting to look at.” _

Eddie sighs again and lifts his head from the stone pillar he’s been leaning against for the past hour. Yes, Sapienza is lovely. A gorgeous town situated along the cliffs of the Amalfi coast, one could get lost roaming all the quaint little shops along its cobblestone streets. The sun glints off the ocean like scattered diamonds, the summer breeze is an almost perfect temperature, there are children laughing and couples walking hand-in-hand down on the boardwalk.

Boring. As. Shit.

“It’s times like these I wish I smoked,” Eddie drawls.

_ “Very film noir of you. As cool as it would be to see you waltzing through a cloud of smoke, we both know that just ain’t you, Eds.” _

“Yeah, I know, I don’t know why I said it.”

_ “Needless to say, remind me to pick you up a fedora for your birthday—not a fucking trilby, uncultured swine, you are no common dude-bro—a real fedora, a proper Sam Spade special.” _

“You watch too many movies.”

_ “Eddie, baby, as much as I love keeping an eye on that cute little behind of yours, there’s only so much I can do from behind a computer monitor. A man’s got to have hobbies, and film is a never ending source of entertainment. Cross stitch can only take me so far.” _

“Cross stitch. You.” The only reply Eddie gets is a faint  _ mhm. _ Like with most personal details, Eddie can’t tell if Richie is being honest or spinning a tale and seeing how far he can get the joke to travel before it falls apart. “You don’t strike me as the arts and crafts type.”

_ “I’ve got depths.” _

Tired of staring at the picturesque seascape and seventy-five percent sure Richie is just fucking with him, Eddie pushes off his post against the arcade to wander along the boardwalk and up the stone steps to the pavilion. Foot traffic is light for a sunny summer’s day. A mixed blessing for an assassin, but at least he won’t be fighting through busloads of tourists. He supposes he could browse the shops to bide his time, maybe look for a trinket for Bev to thank her for the folding knife (with a mother of pearl inlay in the handle and perfectly balanced for its size, a truly lovely addition to his collection), but shop owners make their money off being helpful and attentive. Not what he needs right now. Instead, he wanders over to the stretch of boardwalk where buskers perform to see who might be out at this time of day.

As soon as he does, he wishes he hadn’t. “Oh shit.”

_ “What? Problem?” _

“Clown.”

The man’s outfit is an over-the-top conglomerate of layers, striped pants under a pointed skirt, a waist tunic paired with some sort of frilly collar that’s wider than his shoulders, all laid out in blocky sections of black, white, and red, and tipped with silver bells. His headpiece is a weirdly woven turban with a mask featuring three faces merging together and lined with metal filigree. He shuffles his curly-toed shoes in a creepy, jerking dance to a tune that wobbles heavy and fragmented from the mechanical music box by his feet.

Eddie watches with mute fascination and horror in equal parts, safe from his position behind the small group gathered to watch the clown’s antics. He does this contorting movement that makes his arms look disjointed and a shiver jumps up Eddie’s spine. He has to stop himself from gagging. “Had to be a clown. Why couldn’t it have been a musician or a juggler? A magician, sure, it’s all nonsense, but that’s okay, that’s showbusiness. A sword-swallower, I’d accept that.”

_ “Right. Sure. You’d accept that, totally, I totally believe you. Spaghetti, we both know if you saw some rando shoving blades down their throat without guzzling a gallon of disinfectant first, you’d have a hernia right then and there. I thought you were over your clown phobia?” _

“Coulrophobia, I don’t have coulrophobia, I have a healthy, natural aversion to men in deceiving makeup with probable sinister intentions. Also known as survival instincts.”

_ “I mean, after all the exposure therapy…” _

Eddie’s jaw clenches as he watches the clown bend and twist, bells tinkling with every movement. “What?”

_ “What better way to get over your fears than becoming what you fear.” _

It clicks, what Richie is getting at. Eddie’s voice drops to a cold, hard whisper of warning. “We agreed never to speak of that ever again.”

_ “I made no such agreement. Since you’re so bored, let me remind you.” _

“Don’t.”

_ “Your very first assignment with me–” _

Maybe he can try pleading. “Please don’t.”

_ “–the only way you could get close to the target–” _

“I even said please, Richie, come on.”

_ “–was to dress up as a clown. Curly wig. Red ball nose. Big ass clown feet. Suspenders—okay, gonna be honest, I was a fan of the suspenders. The whole ensemble? Not so much, that doesn’t honk my horn, if you get my meaning, but if you just isolate the suspenders–” _

“Fuck. You. Fuck you and that stupid outfit. That was so humiliating. I know you picked that target just to intimidate me–”

_ “I have apologized for that! I’ve apologized a hundred times, at least! You were a dick, I was a bigger dick, we’ve come a long way from those dark times, you know you’re my favorite! Don’t be mad, Eds, you got to beat the shit out of that guy with a baseball bat with rainbow streamers on the handle, you got your revenge. Also, I don’t think that’s a clown.” _

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snaps automatically, still keeping a wary eye on what is obviously a clown. “What do you mean, not a clown? That’s clearly a clown. If it looks like a clown and acts like a clown, it’s a fucking clown.”

_ “He’s more in the jester category than a clown, don’t you think?” _

“Jester? Where are we? No, when are we, the fifteenth century? Jesters aren’t even a thing anymore.”

_ “Hey, hey, who is the funny-man in this duo? Who is the chatterbox? Who is the authority on all things comedy amongst us? Me, not you, Captain Killjoy. Oh, wait, that’s a good one, let me write it down–” _

“Do not add that to my alias list, asshole. I’ve got enough names–”

_ “Just gonna put that one on the backburner ‘till an opportunity presents itself, don’t worry, I’ve still got four more before Captain Killjoy enters the rotation.” _

“You’re not funny. No one thinks you’re funny. You’re the least funny man I know.”

_ “I am hilarious, I make you laugh on a daily basis, my sole reason for living is to make with the funnies. I’m like your own personal jester. Which is also what that guy you’re watching is trying to be.” _

“Fuck off, it’s a clown!”

Richie tuts at Eddie, scolding.  _ “Better watch that language, señor, there’s children present.” _

Only then does Eddie realize that last bit was said at normal volume, or maybe louder, and directly behind a family of four. The children giggle behind their hands while their mother shoots an angry stare over her shoulder. Eddie smiles apologetically and backs off, skirting the group and giving the clown (it’s a fucking clown, goddamn it) a wide berth. “Bad parenting, exposing their kids to that kind of trauma.”

_ “Come on, dude, it’s just a guy in a costume trying to make a living. You’re not even going to toss him some change?” _

“Fuck no, I’m not! If he wanted to get paid, he shouldn’t dress like a potential serial killer.”

_ “Uh, aren’t you technically a–” _

“No, no, assassins and serial killers are completely different, you know this.”

_ “I know, I know! Please don’t bring out the Powerpoint presentation again!” _

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, either.”

_ “Trying? I’m not trying to do anything.” _

“Yeah, you are, with your, ‘Oh, Eddie, throw him some change, he’s a working man, slave to capitalism,’ bullshit.”

_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _

“Oh, don’t you?”

_ “Whatever you’re implying, I’m sure you’re mistaken–” _

“I’m not using a coin as a distraction method.”

_ “You are a complete and utter failure of imagination and I don’t know why I put up with you!” _

By the time Eddie crosses the pavilion, he’s grinning so hard he has to fight for a neutral expression. He lingers on the corner by a potted ornamental tree and pretends to admire the view of the fountain outside the Villa Caruso. The mansion stands proud and opulent against the steep mountainous backdrop, but hardly welcoming. Eddie spots at least a dozen armed guards stationed around the premises, and that’s just what he can see from street level. He counts himself lucky that today’s hit won’t have him infiltrating that particular block of real estate. 

No, he’s planning on intercepting the target in the Townhall. One of the older buildings in an area already filled with historic structures, the target should have arrived for a meeting inside over an hour ago. “Give me the rundown on this guy again.”

_ “Jesus, you must be bored if you want to hear me drone on about Dick Magee again.” _

Eddie snorts. As hard as he tries to hold it back, Richie surprises him at just the right moment and he snorts. Eddie tries to cover it up with a cough but there is no hiding.

_ “Was that a little sense of humor I heard sneaking out there, Edwina?” _

“Allergies. Must be pollen in the air.”

_ “You don’t have allergies.” _

“I’m allergic to your bullshit.”

_ “And Eds gets off a good one!”  _ Richie crows, tapping a quick rhythm with his hands on something loud enough for Eddie to pick up over his earpiece.  _ “Alrighty-roo, Richard Magee, certified asshat. Self-help guru and counselor to the rootless second and third-generation billionaires of the world. Real piece of work. He combines a fatherly attitude with a strong understanding of manipulative psychology to drive wedges between inter-vivos-fund babies and their parents, and he makes an excellent living in doing so. Infamous for abandoning his protogees as soon as the money runs out. He’s like if a leech sprouted legs and put on an expensive hat. Hey is that a gelato place?” _

The non sequitur catches Eddie by surprise. “Pardon?”

_ “Up those stairs, see? Overlooking the square. You’ll be able to see his approach from up there and it will give you something to do.” _

“I’m not going to get a gelato, I’m on mission.”

_ “Looking at the damn menu isn’t going to kill you, princess. Now move your ass, one of the guards from the villa is eyeing you.” _

Eddie knows better than to so much as flinch in that direction, trusting Richie to be his guide. He walks along the sidewalk, pausing to browse an outdoor display at one of the shops, then climbs another set of stairs to the gelato cafe. He stops next to the printed menu posted outside the shop and contemplates the choices. “Still watching?”

_ “No. He lost interest. Fuck, we don’t need private security for some billionaire nosing into our clean, upstanding killing business. I’ll keep an eye on that guy for you, don’t worry, Eds.” _

“I’m not, I trust you,” Eddie replies, relaxing. The types of groups that get hired to roam the grounds of mansions like Villa Caruso tend to get trigger-happy. If he’s going to get shot at, he’d like it to be by someone at least somewhat related to the target.

He’s expecting Richie to pick their conversation back up now that he’s relocated, but silence stretches between them long enough for Eddie to worry. “Richie? Something wrong?”

_ “No. Sorry. Ah, sorry, just–just distracted. Where was I?” _

“Leech with legs and a funny hat,” Eddie frowns.

_ “Right, yes. Magee’s current mark is Kieth Keeble and the young man’s trust fund. His family has turned to D.E.R.R.I.E. to help rescue their son, and their money, from the Guru’s clutches. The family lawyer has arranged a meeting with the target ostensibly to discuss extending his access to the trust fund, providing us with a window to engage. This is the part where I remind you that Magee will likely have the idiot son and the bloodsucking lawyer with him, and per the contract neither of them can have so much as a scratch. No collateral damage, capiche?” _

“Precision strike, got it.”

_ “For real, if you accidentally kill the client’s son that’s like, an instant negative ten-thousand points.” _

Eddie laughs, bemused. “Do I even have ten-thousand points to lose?”

_ “Seventeen thousand five hundred and thirty-three.” _

“You’re...you’re bullshitting me,” Eddie says, almost dizzy with disbelief. “You pulled that number out of your ass, there’s no way you’ve kept up with that nonsense.”

_ “Got a spreadsheet and everything.” _

Eddie shakes his head and scans the menu again. Richie’s full of shit. “Whatever. Don’t kill the lawyer, don’t kill the trust-fund-baby. Got it. Think I could slip emetic rat poison in his gelato?”

Richie hums, thoughtful.  _ “A classic, with an Italian twist. Would be worth at least forty-five points; an even fifty if you threw in some rainbow sprinkles. I like it, but there’s a non-zero percent chance of young Mister Keeble stealing a bite of his mentor’s tasty treat. The client would probably frown upon their son dying in, on, or around the toilet. But if you want to grab yourself a nibble, I think you’ve still got a little time. Of gelato, not poison. Obviously.” _

“Obviously.” Eddie shakes his head and turns from the gelato shop, letting his legs carry him over to the railing that overlooks the fountain in the pavilion below. “Seems a bit sad, don’t you think?”

_ “Sad?” _

Eddie gazes out across the pavilion at the people going about their lives, oblivious to him and his musings. “Getting ice cream for one.” He grips the railing with both hands, hard, unforgiving beneath his fingers. “Seems lonely.”

He can hear Richie’s slow inhale. If Eddie closed his eyes, he could pretend Richie isn’t an untold number of miles away, but here. Right here with him.  _ “You’re not alone, Eds. You’ve got me.” _

A breath of a laugh escapes. “I’ve got you.” Eddie’s tongue drags along his bottom lip and his eyes follow the path of a gull dropping down from the sky, then gliding back up into the blue.

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since Miami, drinks under a red umbrella, Bev and Mike talking and laughing and calling Eddie a loser. Two weeks of Eddie trying to work up the nerve to broach this subject with Richie. Every time he thinks he’s found a way into the conversation, the words stick like tar on his tongue. He can’t find the right combination of words for all these feelings that are too big to be stuffed in his five-foot-nine frame. He can hear every warning, from Mike, from Stan, from the nameless, faceless authority that is D.E.R.R.I.E., his ex-wife, even the faint echoes of his mother. You’ve got a good thing, don’t rock the boat, stay away from boys like that, don’t trust, trust is dangerous, trust will get you killed.

“I do have you, don’t I?” Eddie’s tired of wanting what he can’t have. Maybe the boat needs to be rocked. “I’ve been thinking.”

_ “Nothing dramatic has ever followed such words. Color me intrigued.” _

“We should meet.”

He expects an immediate dismissal, with how haphazardly he throws the words out, like they’re scorching. But instead he gets a contemplative silence that lengthens and stretches into a thin strand, Eddie’s heart is dangling from a spinning thread, only moments from snapping and sending him crashing to the ground.

_ “I had wondered, if you were ever going to bring it up.”  _ Richie pauses, like he might need to gather his thoughts. Eddie lets him. He can have all the time he needs. When he speaks again, Richie’s voice has gone soft and quiet.  _ “You know we aren’t supposed to see each other.” _

Eddie swallows. “I know.”

_ “For your safety.” _

“That’s not a no.”

_ “No, it’s not.” _

He can’t believe they’re actually having this conversation. Here, now, in the middle of a mission. Professionalism can take a hike. “You’ve broken rules before.  _ We’ve _ broken rules before.”

Richie laughs, once.  _ “Not like this.” _

“First time for everything,” Eddie suggests, getting him another laugh. “Would you like that? Do you want to meet?”

_ “It’s not about what I want. That doesn’t matter.” _

“It matters to me.”

_ “Fuck, Eds,”  _ Richie sighs, long and blustery.  _ “You know–of course I want to. I thought that much was obvious. But you–we–I could never risk–fuck!” _

Eddie jolts at the unexpected curse, glancing around, but of course no one nearby can hear him at all. “Rich. If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t suggest it. I wouldn’t care. But it’s you.”

_ “What does that mean?” _

“I don’t know, you’re just...you. I know you. I trust you.”

_ “You don’t know anything about me. Aren’t you afraid?” _

“I’m a fucking assassin. There’s a lot worse things to be afraid of.”

Richie breathes in like he might argue, but only releases it as a hum. Then, Eddie hears him smile.  _ “Like clowns?” _

“Yeah, like clowns,” Eddie replies, cracking a smile of his own. “I’m way more afraid of clowns than I could ever be of you.”

_ “Pretty sure you’ve called me a clown once or twice, but if you’re willing to forget then so am I.” _

Eddie closes his eyes. If he pretends hard enough, he can imagine Richie right there next to him, their shoulders brushing, words tickling his ear. “I wish you were here.”

He can almost trick himself that it’s Richie’s breath against his cheek and not the summer sunlight.  _ “I wish I was there, too.” _

“I could buy you a gelato, since you’re so interested. My treat.”

_ “Lemon. It’s your favorite.” _

“You know that?”

_ “Of course, I know that,”  _ Richie replies, sweet and tender and aching. _ “It’s you.” _

“We could share. Would you?” Eddie asks. Feeling like he’s asking for something far more important. “If you were here with me?”

_ “Eddie, if I was there with you, right now, we would have gotten a lot farther than gelato.” _

His smile grows and grows into a grin that splits his face, hurts his cheeks. Eyes squinting open to adjust to the sun again, a flash catches his attention. Chrome glaring in the bright light, a town car pulls to a stop outside the Townhall building and a man in a cream colored linen suit and matching hat steps out. He adjusts his bowtie as a younger man hops out on the opposite side and jogs around to join him. They both disappear behind the wooden doors of the Townhall.

Richie clears his throat.  _ “That would be Magee and Keeble.” _

“I saw,” Eddie replies, following Richie’s lead and falling back on his own professionalism, as shaky as it may be. He swallows again, throat parched, and squeezes the railing like a lifeline. “We’ll continue this conversation later?”

_ “Yeah, we–uh. Yeah. Yeah. We can do that, sure. Later?” _

“Later.”

Richie didn’t say no. Not even close. Richie wants to meet him. If Eddie plays his cards right, they  _ will  _ meet. Holy shit, he thinks he might vibrate out of his skin. Eddie allows himself one more moment to beam out at the fountain, the pavilion, Sapienza, the ocean and all of Italy and the world beyond, then schools his expression back to neutral indifference. Fucking work. Maybe Bev was onto something about that vacation business. He wonders what Richie would think of joining him. “What floor should he be on?” Eddie asks, going back down the stairs from whence he came and cutting across the pavilion toward the Townhall building.

_ “Oh, uh, yeah, the meeting room is supposed to be on the third floor. The client’s law firm has an office there. He doesn’t have any reason to wander, so you should be good to go straight there. But I don’t recommend the front entrance if you want to keep from drawing attention.” _

“There’s a side door that leads to a stairwell,” Eddie replies. He slows his pacing when he gets near, though, spotting someone loitering by the very door he plans to use. “I’ve got a civilian blocking my path. A chef on his smoke break, looks like.”

_ “Wait him out, I’m trying to get eyes on Magee.” _

Eddie watches as the chef flicks ash off the end of his cigarette and chats on his phone, seconds ticking by. A lot of assassin work involves waiting, which is something Eddie can usually handle, but today he is at his wit’s end. All he wants is to be done so he can get back to the conversation at hand. Fucking Magee taking all goddamn day to get here.

Like a creeping vine, uneasiness slithers up Eddie’s spine. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The distinct feeling of being watched. Eddie’s eyes dart around the pavilion, the people milling about, the rooftops. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. And yet. “Rich?”

_ “Sorry, I don’t know what the fucking problem is, this camera feed I was using is dead. Piece of shit security systems, I swear, it’s always like this when they try to add technology to these old buildings. I don’t know if it shorted out or what, but I can’t get a bead on this guy. We know he’s in the building, though.” _

The chef drops his cigarette on the ground and grinds the embers out with the toe of his shoe, then heads to the back of the little restaurant nearby. As soon as the back door bangs shut behind him, Eddie makes his move. He’s always been quick with a lockpick and now is no exception. A little jiggling, a forceful twist, and Eddie is slipping into the darkened stairwell behind the unlocked door.

Inside the stairwell is cool and musty. Quiet. Eddie glances through the thin glass window of the door that leads to the first floor, but doesn’t see anyone or anything worth worrying about. “I’m in.”

_ “Shit. Okay, I won’t be able to pick you up until you’re on the third floor. Tread carefully.” _

Eddie pulls out his Kruger as he scales the stairs, comforted by the familiar weight in his hand. The built-in suppressor makes it one of the quietest guns in his arsenal. One of his favorites, even if it lacks precision at long range; Richie always said Eddie did his best work up-close. “I’ve got a camera here,” Eddie murmurs when he reaches the third floor. The gray box is mounted in the corner headed up to the next level. “Light’s off. Cord hanging loose.”

_ “What? That doesn’t make sense, I was just looking through there an hour ago.” _

He can’t hear anything through the door in front of him, no voices, no movement. The meeting must be deeper on this floor. Eddie pulls the gun up, ready.

_ “Hold on, Eds.” _

“I’m in position.”

_ “I know, but something isn’t right.” _

Eddie huffs, rolling his eyes. “We’ve been holding for hours, what is it now?”

_ “I’ve lost my visuals from inside the building, too.” _

“So? I’ve gone into places you couldn’t track me through before. I’m just gonna be in and out.”

He’s already through the door and in the first room before Richie can tell him to wait. Nice art on the walls, a bookshelf, a few chairs in one corner. It feels like the waiting area for a therapist’s office, if the therapist routinely makes millions of dollars off one client. Which, Eddie supposes is the case, technically. The next room is visible through the open doorway, so Eddie keeps moving, eyes scanning for movement.

The floor plan opens up into a larger area, a desk next to a set of couches. More bookshelves, art on the walls, historical artifacts or, more likely, clever fakes that cost less than the real thing. On one wall, tall windows flood the room with light; from here he can see the pavilion he stalked around all morning. There’s no one in this room, either. The private office beyond that is just as empty.

Eyes wide, senses reaching, Eddie takes in as many details as he can. The paperwork strewn about the low table before the couch. Two cups nearby, one of coffee and one of tea, heat steaming the sides. The slow drift of a cigarette burning down in the tray on the desk. “No one’s here, but they were. It’s like they’ve disappeared.”

_ “Eddie, get out of there. Get out! Now!” _

The wall behind Eddie’s head bursts as bullets send fragments of plaster flying through the air. He drops down and fires blindly in the direction of the stairwell and gunfire rings out, enough that Eddie knows there’s more than one shooter. He catches sight of at least three, but there’s shouting, pounding feet coming up and going down the stairs. “Fuck!” he shouts, flipping the table over on its side for makeshift cover. “Fuck, fuck!”

_ “The office! There’s a hallway out the other side! Go!” _

He has to reload, tries to when he makes for the inner office, just as one of the gunmen rushes him. Eddie dodges a punch and in the same movement grabs an ornamental bust off the desk, swinging it upward into the man’s nose, then back down against the crown of his head. It crumbles under the force and so does the man.

Eddie doesn’t wait around to see if he stands back up. He does as Richie told him and darts through the office and down the narrow hallway. He’s hoping for another stairwell, a window, anything, but what he stumbles into is a cluttered space the building owners have been using for a storage room. Stacked crates, statuettes draped with white cloth, framed paintings leaning against the walls, everything covered in a fine layer of dust. There’s no obvious exits; the windows are too narrow for Eddie’s body. A dead end. “Shit!”

His pursuers round the corner and Eddie grabs the first thing he can get his hands on from the piles of stuff laying around and flings it as hard as he can. Turns out to be a saber, and the blade flies end over end right into the lead gunman. He shouts, gun going off as his finger squeezes the trigger, and bowls over the man behind him. Eddie ducks down behind a large crate and reloads. “Shit!”

_ “Eddie what’s happening?! I can’t see you!” _

“No exits! I’m cornered!” He turns his head away as wood splinters towards his face, then blind-fires over the top of the crate back at the hallway. “I’ve got them bottlenecked but I don’t know how many there are. I’m pinned in!”

Even with all the noise of the fight, Eddie still picks up sudden distortion over the line, Richie in motion.  _ “Okay. Stay put! I’m on my way!” _

“You’re–” Eddie’s mouth stalls, mind jamming, a record scratch. “What do you mean, you’re on your way? You’re  _ here?!” _

_ “Two minutes! Hold them off for two minutes!” _

“What the fuck does that mean?! Richie? Richie!”

Eddie doesn’t get a reply, and he doesn’t have time to process what it means. The crate he’s hiding behind isn’t proving to be the ideal cover he hoped it would be; the wood is flying like shrapnel. Whatever’s inside the crate must be solid enough to block bullets, but he doesn’t know how long that will last. He waits for a pause in the barrage to fire back, trying to at least make contact. “Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck,” Eddie hisses to himself, reloading again. “Son of a fucking bitch, fuck the cameras, fuck Dick Magee, and fuck these guys.” He peeks out and manages to tag one of them in the wrist, his pained wailing joining the cacophony of shouts and gunfire. “Suck it up, asshole, it’s just a gunshot wound!”

The canvases and the wall behind him get peppered with holes. Eddie covers his eyes, debris raining down on his head, and the air fills with clouds of dust.. He can’t stay here. He looks desperately to the window again, but it’s too small, it’s not possible, physics simply doesn’t work that way. Pressing his back against the crate, he searches around him for any other sign of escape, but there’s nothing. The only way out is back down the hallway. He’s trapped.

He hears the screaming before anything else. Far back from where he entered the building, there’s screaming, moving in a wave through the gunmen all the way to this hidden storage room.

Eddie’s position stops getting littered with bullet holes. The enemy’s attention is on something else. Someone else. He can hear single-shot reports then shouts dying out, one by one. And a very familiar voice calling his name.

“Eddie!”

There’s no way.

“Eddie?!”

It’s not possible.

The three gunmen that stayed to keep Eddie trapped are suddenly tripping over themselves into the room, their guns not pointed at Eddie but trained down the hall they came from. He raises his gun and manages to hit one in the side just as the other two take bullets to the head. Two muffled pops, and their bodies go down.

Eddie takes a shaky breath and turns to look over the corner of the crate. Through the haze of dust caught in sunlight, a man walks through the door. He’s dressed casually, t-shirt and hoodie and bright yellow converse, not the tactical armor like the dead men on the floor. Taller than Eddie, all long-limbed and broad in the shoulders. One arm is raised, a gloved hand holding a pistol poised to strike. Mouth set, gaze focused, manic determination behind wild hair and dark-rimmed glasses. His gaze sweeps the room to settle on Eddie and his eyes widen. The arm holding the gun lowers a touch, then drops down by his side. They stare at each other, smoke curling lazily from the barrel of his pistol.

Then the man’s whole face transforms into a wide grin, eyes lighting from within. “Hey there, Spaghetti.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie answers automatically. Faintly. He’s too stunned to think. Gobsmacked. The word has never resonated with him until now. Pushing himself to his feet, he worries for a moment his legs might wobble and collapse beneath him. He already feels like he’s falling, may as well follow through. “Richie?”

“The one and only,” Richie replies.

Eddie can’t stop staring. 

It’s Richie. Really. Here. Eddie’s feet move him forward without thought. He has to take his eyes off Richie so he won’t trip over the corpse between them, but his eyes jerk back fast, a magnet drawn north. It’s Richie. With dust drifting to settle in his hair and shoulders, a gun in his hand and a smile on his face. It’s Richie. “You’re here.”

Then he snaps.

“What the fuck!?” Eddie exclaims before smacking Richie in the arm. He ignores the insistent chorus of his brain chanting  _ Richie’s here Richie It’s Richie.  _ His hand stings with the thrill of making contact with the man he’s been thinking about for ages. “You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing here? Have you been here this whole time? Are you always personally there for my missions? Why didn’t you say anything, you turd?!”

“Hey, hey, hey! I didn’t know, ‘Thank you for rescuing me, Richie, I was a goner without you, you’re my knight in shining armor,’ could sound so accusatory!” Richie’s smile quirks sideways when Eddie smacks him again and holds on, squeezing Richie’s shoulder like he can’t accept he’s real without tangible proof. “Sometimes I like to keep a closer eye on my agent than recommended. Keeping up with you can get tricky in some of these old towns. I had a gut feeling, so sue me.”

“I ought to, for undue stress,” Eddie counters, finally grinning himself. Richie grips Eddie back, snagging onto his forearm with the hand not holding the gun. “You fucker. Get your own damn gelato, see if I care.”

Richie grins wild and free, like a kid running off on adventures with his best friend. “Oh, I care, Eds. I care.” His eyes sweep up and down Eddie’s frame, checking for injuries. “You okay?”

“Yeah, no, I’m good. I’ll probably die from mesothelioma from all the asbestos I’m breathing in, but other than that, peachy.” As elated as he is to finally have a face to put to the voice, the reality of the situation crashes down on Eddie. His smile drops. “What happened?”

“Good question. This, all this? It’s too coordinated. Whoever these people are, they knew we’d be here. We’ve been set up.” They both look down at the bodies now cooling on the floor, puddles of deep red soaking into the carpet and mixing with the chunks of wood and drywall. “Don’t think we have time to clean up this one. Come on, all that gunfire had to catch someone’s attention. Reinforcements will be here any minute and I’d rather not meet them.”

Eddie follows Richie back through the now-decimated third floor, stepping over corpses left and right. Headshots, every single one. Over a dozen men armed to the teeth. He can’t help but gawk at the path of destruction Richie carved to get to him. Richie doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ve got an apartment around the square,” he’s saying, using his foot to shove a body out of the way so he can get the stairwell door open. “We’ll get my gear and get out of here. I think we’re  _ persona non grata _ around these parts now. Hope you didn’t want to buy a Sapienza vacation home.”

“What a shame, just when it started to get exciting,” Eddie admits. They each hold their guns out, one looking up the stairs and the other down. There’s no movement; if there was anyone left to ambush them, surely they’ve fled after Richie’s spree.

“Ah, Sapienza,” Richie murmurs, starting down the stairs. “Come for the views, stay for the mass murder.” He grabs at the railing every other step, his gait awkward, uneven. He favors his left leg. The knee doesn’t bend quite enough to take these stairs without trouble. Still, he’s not newly injured as far as Eddie can see. He moves like he’s accustomed to it, like this is his every day normal.

At the bottom of the stairwell they pause to ease the exit door open and peer outside. “Even if these people don’t have backup, the security from Villa Caruso will come to investigate,” Richie says. The sunlight glints off his Silverballer handgun first, then hits the left side of his face and neck. The glow of gold highlights pale scars. Wide, shallow furrows of silver and pink grow like weeds up out of the collar of his shirt, gnarled on the side of his neck, over the sharp knot of his jaw. One long slice arcs upward along the cut of his cheekbone and stops right below his left eye.

Eddie catches these details in the brief seconds Richie leans out into the sunlight to check the wall toward the pavilion. Questions line up in his mind one after the next and he files them away for later, when they’re not running for their lives. “A distraction would help.”

“Done and done.” Richie jerks his head and Eddie darts out across the alley to a narrow side street. There’s a faded Vespa parked near the door that Richie pauses by, yanking at wires and unscrewing caps. Ten seconds of tampering and he’s joining Eddie in the shadow of the building. Eddie aims the Kruger at the gas tank.

The explosion shatters the windows of the Townhall and the adjacent shop. Fire flares outward to catch the nearby dumpster ablaze. Black smoke mushrooms and billows up to obscure the flawless sky. Car alarms start to go off nearby.

They move quick and quiet, jogging through the back streets and alleys to avoid attention. Richie moves faster on the rolling cobblestone streets than the stairs, but the effort is obviously taking its toll. “Sorry,” he mutters when he pauses to lean against a corner to breathe. “It’s been a minute since I’ve had leg day.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie replies, wondering just how Richie made it as far as he did to reach Eddie in two minutes. “How much further is it?”

“Up those stairs and around the corner,” Richie says, motioning toward a short apartment complex at the top of a steep set of winding stairs.

They start climbing and make it to the first platform before Richie slams to a stop, nearly toppling over when Eddie runs into his back. He shoves Eddie against the retaining wall and presses back next to him, hiding them both behind a jut in the stone. Eddie hisses when his head bounces off the brick. “Ouch, fucker! What?”

“Sorry! There’s security at the top of the stairs.” Easing forward together, they see two with their backs turned, both armed.

“Are those SMG’s?” Eddie hisses as Richie pushes him back again. “I hate this place. Does Caruso own the whole town? How are they roaming the city with machine guns out in the open?”

“Yeah, this place sucks, which is why we’re getting out of here, pronto.” Richie glances out again then at the wall behind them. “Okay, here’s the plan. My apartment is on the other side of that building up there. You’re going to climb this drain pipe, cross the roof, hop up the balcony that overhangs the other side, go through that apartment, down to the apartment on the other landing. Wait for me there.”

“Hold up, what? No. Why? I’ll go with you.”

“They’re looking for you, not me.” He looks up at the drain pipe and glares at it like it personally insulted him. “And there’s no way I can climb that thing anymore. Not without drawing attention.”

Eddie doesn’t like it; he doesn’t want to let Richie out of his sights, not now that he finally has him. But it’s not like Richie can’t handle himself, now, is it? Not after that display of marksmanship back there. “You’ll be fine?”

“Of course,” Richie replies, tucking his Silverballer in the front pocket of his hoodie as Eddie shoves his Kruger in the back waist of his dress slacks. “Oh, by the way,” Richie adds as he pulls his hood up, “grab my signal amplifier on the balcony. Those things ain’t cheap. And don’t worry about the body in the first apartment.”

Eddie grasps the pipe and jams his foot in the grout between bricks, preparing to pull himself up, but pauses to look back at that. “The—a body. Why is there a body in the first apartment?”

“Reasons! I said don’t worry about it, Spagheds!”

He smacks Eddie’s ass and is gone, gone before Eddie can react with a drop kick to the head like he wants to. “Dick!” Eddie hisses after him. Richie flips the bird over his shoulder, already halfway up to the next landing.

The pipe is filthy but secure in his hands. Eddie hauls himself up as fast as he can, aware that as soon as he gets halfway up he’ll be exposed to anyone who happens to glance his direction. At the top, he scrambles across terra cotta shingles and up onto the balcony, just where Richie said it would be. The only piece of equipment there is a little black box with an antenna sticking out the top, clipped to the railing, so Eddie assumes that’s the signal amplifier. The sliding glass door is already open. Inside, laid out on the floor by the bed, is the corpse Richie mentioned. 

“So weird,” Eddie murmurs, unhooking the amplifier and stuffing it in his pocket. He’s used to being the one causing this sort of chaos, not stumbling upon it himself. Is this what investigators feel like after one of his hits? Walking into a room and having far more questions than answers? Must be annoying as fuck.

He makes sure to close and lock the door behind him on the way out, then leaps the few stairs down to the landing and Richie’s apartment. The door is ajar from where he tore out of here earlier to rescue Eddie. He steps in and has to stop at the threshold to take it all in. “Jesus-fucking- _ Christ.” _

Calling it an apartment is an overstatement; it’s more of a glorified closet with a bathroom. There’s not any furniture save for a dilapidated old couch that was probably abandoned by the previous tenants. It’s clear no one actually lives here. But what it lacks in amenities, it more than makes up for in surveillance equipment. There’s monitors on cardboard boxes stacked in a makeshift desk, others on the floor, a mouse and keyboard on a lap table. Some equipment he recognizes: a signal jammer, a proximity demolition block, a stack of cell phones. Other things he doesn’t recognize but are covered in dials and buttons, wires criss-crossing from device to device in a web of electronics. A box of take-out, a few soda cans. A giant thermos that probably contains the coffee Richie claims he can’t function without. A fucking hoop with a cross stitch in-progress, ‘Great Tits’ in pixelated cursive surrounded by yellow and black birds.

A sniper rifle propped on a stand by the window.

Eddie steps gingerly over the maze of equipment and looks out. Across the pavilion there’s a clear view of the third-floor windows of the Townhall, where Eddie stood not ten minute prior.

He hears the front door open down below followed by Richie’s uneven footfalls up the stairs. “Eddie?”

“I’m here,” he calls back, turning when Richie appears in the doorway. “Good?”

“Yeah, they didn’t clock me as important,” Richie replies, locking the door behind him. He starts yanking plugs and packing up electronics with haphazard speed. “We can leave the monitors. I’ll make do with just the laptop, but I don’t know when—fuck.  _ If. _ I don’t know  _ if _ we’ll be able to resupply, because I don’t know what the fuck just happened. Can you break that down for me?”

Eddie glances at the sniper rifle and nods, kneeling down to disassemble it. “I haven’t in a long time.”

“Yeah, you’re better at close range,” Richie comments, chucking things into a duffel bag so fast Eddie’s certain he’s breaking things. “I’ve got a boat waiting at the end of the south pier. It will get us far enough from here so we can regroup.”

“I need a change of clothes if I’m going back down to the boardwalk,” Eddie says, looking up from where he’s unscrewing the scope.

Richie’s mouth quirks upward. “You can borrow some of mine. Might have to roll the pant legs up a few times–”

“Shut up. Statistically I’m average height, you’re just the fucking Slenderman over here –”

“I talk way too much to be compared to the Slenderman. You’re the one that’s always rocking the suit-and-red-tie combo–”

“It’s called a classic for a reason, dickwad.”

They’re grinning at each other again, eyes locked and holding. Eddie feels crazy, like he’s somehow stuck in a trance and waking up for the first time all at once, all centered on blue-gray eyes that crinkle at the edges. “I can’t believe you’re here,” Eddie says.

Richie’s smile turns soft and sincere. “Me neither.” He swallows and zips the duffel shut. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions–”

“Damn right, I do.”

“And I can’t promise I have all the answers, but can we at least hold them until we’re somewhere safe?”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. Up until an hour ago, all he knew about Richie was that he was Eddie’s best friend and that he was very good at keeping Eddie safe. Now, Eddie’s holding the barrel of a Sieger 3000 Ghost sniper rifle in his hands, they’ve left a trail of devastation through an Italian city, they’re compromised, and he has no idea just what Richie is capable of. “I didn’t think handlers got their hands dirty.”

“I told you, Eds. I’ve got depths.” Richie stands and shoulders the bag. He tosses Eddie a change of clothes; a bright Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. “Later. I promise, I’ll explain everything later.”

Shucking his jacket and starting on the buttons of his shirt, Eddie glares until Richie turns his back and averts his gaze. “If we were set up, someone who knew about the contract had to arrange this. Did Stan–”

“This wasn’t Stan,” Richie snaps, then draws his shoulders up, defensive, and raises a hand. “Sorry, no, there’s no way. I know Stan and he wouldn’t do this. In fact, I haven’t heard from him in days.”

Eddie’s stomach drops. “Do you think something happened to him?”

Richie digs his fingers through his hair. “Fuck. It better not have. I’ve got to get a hold of him. If someone so much as plucked one curl from that head of his, I’ll,  _ fuck!  _ What if someone got to him and I didn’t realize–”

A hand on his shoulder stops Richie from ramping up into a panic. Eddie turns him around, squeezes his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We? You sure?” Richie asks. “If you were smart, you’d disappear right now. Get out of this game while you can. You’re compromised. You don’t know who to trust. Not D.E.R.R.I.E., not other agents.”

“I trust you,” Eddie says. “I trust you more than myself, most of the time. That hasn’t changed. You’re not giving up on me now, are you?”

“Not a chance.” He nods, once, a promise. Then Richie snags a hat from the floor and slaps it over Eddie’s dark hair. It’s too big for his head, falls over his eyes, and makes him look like a kid. The glower he gets makes Richie laugh. “Come on, shortstack. We’ve got a boat to catch.”


	4. Bangkok, Thailand - Part One

Bangkok, Thailand

\---

Safe is a relative term in their line of work. The everyday man-on-the-street would be horrified walking along the edges of buildings or dodging blades and bullets. Then again, Eddie is horrified by things the everyday man-on-the-street does without thought, like eating from the buffet or not disinfecting their hands. Maybe Eddie isn’t the best authority on something like safety, anyway. He went from not being allowed to trick-or-treat as a child because of the threat someone might put razor blades in the candy to slitting throats for a living.

Richie, however, knows exactly the kind of safety this situation calls for, and just how to make it happen. Which is kind of crazy to think about, how such a chaotic mind can lock down a problem so swiftly. By the time Eddie steers their speedboat into a port further down the coast, Richie has already secured them a get-away car to the airport and a series of plane tickets from Amalfi to Athens, then Athens to Cairo. They don’t sit together on the flights, and they barely speak in the interim, but by Cairo Richie is certain they haven’t been followed. Only then does he book them on a straight flight to Bangkok.

Not that he’s explained why. They manage to sit next to each other on the final leg of their journey, and it’s the first chance Eddie has to really speak with Richie for more than five minutes. “You take the window seat,” Richie says, pushing Eddie toward the darkened window and not taking no for an answer. He wedges his bass-guitar-hiding-a-sniper-rifle case into the overhead bin—and Eddie still doesn’t understand how Richie has gotten that thing onto three flights without so much as a raised eyebrow—and plops down right in the middle seat, extending his legs out toward the aisle in a luxurious cat-like stretch.

“Did you really buy an extra seat just for your noodle legs?” Eddie asks.

“There weren’t any available with extended leg-room. Long legs are a curse as much as a blessing, Eduardo. At least I can reach things on the top shelf, unlike some people I could name.”

“Is it hard finding hats to cover that five-head you’ve got going on? Like, is there a special catalogue you buy through, or is it a charity thing?”

Richie’s teeth flash in a manic grin. “There’s something delicious about hearing your insults live in concert.” Richie flicks on the overhead light, the sudden glow of gold making Eddie wince in the dim cabin. He watches Richie unfold his laptop and start setting up the in-flight wi-fi he must have already paid for. The passengers across the aisle look over at them with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance, so Richie side-eyes them and angles the screen away from their view. “Sorry about the seating. I would have scored us first-class, but time was of the essence. Priorities, am I right? I promise, honeypie, next vacation, nothing but the best.  _ Champagne wishes and caviar dreams. _ ” 

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, reluctantly impressed by the Robin Leach impression. “I’m going to hold you to that, though. My back’s going to hurt like hell later.” The light glares off the laptop screen and curiosity has Eddie swaying a touch closer. The desktop is cluttered with icons, but behind the chaos he can clearly see a custom background image made from a photograph. Four young men sit in the corner booth of a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, a giant thin-crust in a place of prominence in the middle of the table. They’re amused, caught laughing, toasting with slices oozing strings of mozzarella.

Eddie recognizes a young Richie and Stan, but only gets a vague look at the other two before a folder opens and obscures them from view. He deliberately doesn’t look at Richie’s face, not sure if he’s been caught peeking, and files that away for later. “That thing must have amazing battery life, with how much you’ve been on it,” Eddie misdirects. “Have you had any luck?”

“I used all my luck up when I got your mom in bed for the first time, really cashed in all my chips at once and have been riding that high ever since. Oh, excuse me! Miss?” Richie ignores the indignant huff that earns him from Eddie and flags down a passing flight attendant, shooting her his most charming smile. Prick. “I know we haven’t taken off yet, but I would literally  _ kill  _ for a coffee. Is there any way you could…?”

Her expression shifts from vague annoyance to sympathy once she catches sight of the tired bags under Richie’s eyes. “I’ll grab you one as soon as I have the chance.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” Richie enthuses. To Eddie, he adds, “If only I could mainline coffee. Just hook me up, right in the jugular, I’d drag that IV pole with me everywhere.”

Eddie watches Richie’s broad hands alternate between flying across the keyboard at break-neck speeds and trembling when they pause. “Your heart’s going to stop at this rate.”

A series of programs spring to life as windows pop open one-by-one on the laptop screen. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

_ “What?!” _

“Nothing important,” Richie says, brushing that off and actually giving Eddie his full attention. “Listen, I’ve got a lot to tell you and it’s not all pretty, so I’m going to start with the good news so you don’t have an aneurism before we even take off. I got a hold of Stan. He’s been injured but he’s stable. Bev and Mike are fine, and so are their handlers. Minor injuries, nothing lasting.”

The wave of relief that washes over Eddie is almost palpable. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, thank Christ. Fuck.” Breathe in, breathe out. They’re fine, his friends are fine. He didn’t realize how worried he was until now. “How bad?”

“Stan wouldn’t say, which isn’t surprising. Fucker’s always played his cards close to the vest. Patty’s with him, though; she’ll keep him in line.”

Eddie rubs his face with both hands then props his chin against his fist. “This wasn’t targeting just us, then.” Richie hums an affirmative. “Who didn’t make it?”

“Eds.”

“Just tell me.”

Richie glances at the laptop screen, then at the other passengers before forcing himself to meet Eddie’s gaze. “Ripsom. Mellon. His handler, Hagarty. I can’t get confirmation for anyone else, but it doesn’t look good.”

A cold stone settles in Eddie’s gut. “Shit,” he hisses, staring ahead at the folded tray-table. Eddie’s only met the other agents a handful of times. Betty Ripsom was in the field long before Eddie joined D.E.R.R.I.E. They weren’t exactly friends but she was nice enough, cordial, and made him feel welcome among their ranks. No-nonsense. It’s hard to imagine someone getting the drop on her. Adrian Mellon was a new face. Daring, bold, a little cock-sure. Promising. 

Both gone, just like that.

And those were just the agents Richie could verify. Who else is out there? Who’s left?

“D.E.R.R.I.E. is in a shambles,” Richie says as if reading his thoughts. “Whoever did this coordinated an attack on all of us. They wanted to wipe out the organization in one fell swoop. I reckon that’s why we’ve had problems with faulty intelligence lately. Testing how hard it would be to put us all in danger. Figure out who’s weak.”

“Someone on the inside,” Eddie surmises, shaking his head. “We’ve been double-crossed.”

“Looks like. Oh!” The dour expression brightens with delight as the flight attendant returns with a steaming cup of coffee, a handful of creamers and some sugar packets. Richie looks like he’s meeting a saint. “Thank you, thank you, more than I can ever say. Keep ‘em coming? You’re an absolute angel.”

Richie barely waits for her to turn before downing half the cup in one go, scalding the inside of his mouth, throat working to swallow as much as possible. His face is a mask of pure bliss when he stops to breathe. “That’s the stuff,” he gasps, shaking the sugar packets before ripping them open and dumping their contents all at once. “I’ve had to abandon all my usual sources of information. Anything connected to D.E.R.R.I.E. has to be considered compromised. I’ve been tunneling through multiple VPN’s so if anyone was tracking my digital movement, they aren’t now. It’s been awhile since I’ve had to go all rogue hacker, but I’m getting back into the swing of things. I'll get to the bottom of this, one way or another.”

This really isn’t his area of expertise, so Eddie’s not sure what to ask about that. “Contacting Stan didn’t expose us? Or them?”

“No, we’re good. Precautions on top of precautions. Stan’s in contact directly with me and the other two handler’s, but other than that, we’re on our own.” Richie pours every last creamer into his coffee cup until the liquid is nothing but a cloudy beige sugar mixture. “I’ve booked us rooms at the Himmapan Hotel in Bangkok. The others will meet us there once they’re sure it’s safe to move. Even taking every necessary safety measure, I want to be sure they won’t be followed.”

“We’re all going to be there, in person?”

Richie breathes in deep and lets all the air out in a heavy exhale. “Yep. It’s sure to be quite the party.”

Eddie watches Richie for a moment, his handler’s eyes trained on the screen. An errant curl hangs down in front of his glasses. “I don’t even know your name.”

That makes Richie startle and break focus, turning those bright blue eyes on Eddie. “Oh! Ha, shit, yeah, I guess not.” Richie offers a broad smile and twists to present his hand. “Richie Tozier. Formerly Agent Pigeon.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” he replies automatically, feeling dumb after he says it. Like Richie doesn’t know everything about him. His hand feels completely surrounded by Richie’s, warm and sure. Eddie’s already shaking it before the rest of the words catch up with his tired brain. “Did you say Agent  _ Pigeon?” _

Richie winces. “Let’s not make a big thing out of it.”

“Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no, we are making such a big thing out of this. Pigeon?  _ Pigeon? _ Are you serious? Oh my God, things make so much sense now. No wonder you hated using the bird codenames so much!”

“I already regret this,” he says, pulling his hand back. It leaves Eddie feeling oddly bereft. “Is it too late to be assigned a new agent?”

“You wish you could get rid of me,” Eddie replies. “Pigeon! How did you get saddled with that as a callsign? Please tell me you didn’t take a shit on something. Oh, I’m never going to let you live it down if you did.”

“No! You—dude, shut up! I am not known for my crapping capabilities!” Richie sputters over Eddie’s giggling. “It’s Pigeon because Stan is an asshole. He likes to see me suffer every indignity possible. Just like you, apparently.”

It takes a minute for Eddie to calm down, tears lingering in the corners of his eyes. The lack of sleep is definitely making him giddy. “That’s amazing. Jesus. I need to send Stan a fruit basket.”

“You’re a fruit basket,” Richie counters. That just sets Eddie off again, and Richie watches with a growing smile. “So mean to me. I don’t know why I put up with someone so mean.”

“You like it.” Eddie fights a yawn, eyelids drooping. His laughing fit drained him of what little energy he had left. “Well, Richie Tozier, former Agent Pigeon, it’s nice to officially meet you. I had no idea.”

Richie shifts in his seat, weight pitching to bring him closer to Eddie. “Most of the handlers now-a-days are former agents. They’re more reliable than outside personnel.”

“So Mike and Bev’s used to work the field, too?”

Richie nods. “Shoebill and Rook. Good guys. I haven’t talked to them in years, though.” His face twists into a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You could say I’m a bit of a recluse.”

Eddie hums, and his eyes catch on the wing of scar tissue peeking out on the curve of Richie’s jaw. “I take it you were injured?”

“Nah. Won the lottery. Eighty million in the Powerball. Professional assassination support is just a hobby,” Richie snarks, and Eddie holds up both hands. “No, you’re right, sorry, I’m just being an ass. But yeah. Injured in the line of duty and all that. I could have retired, I guess, but Stan is nothing if not shrewd. He didn’t want to lose an asset. And civilian life is too boring, so.” He gestures at the laptop, where lines of code are scrolling by that Eddie couldn’t begin to understand. “Might as well be useful.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you used to be an agent? I mean, I can tell why you didn’t tell me you had such a stupid callsign–”

“Asshole.”

“–but you could have told me the rest.”

Richie shrugs. “We’re supposed to keep personal shit out of it.” He taps a few keys idly, then adds, “I guess I’m trying to focus on the present, not the past.”

There’s a sadness here that Eddie is not equipped to handle. But he isn’t sure he needs to understand the details to get the gist. “That’s fair,” he offers, smiling when Richie meets his gaze once again. Then, before he can contain it, a yawn splits Eddie’s face wide open. Embarrassing. “Sorry.”

“You should get some rest while you can,” Richie says quietly, eyes tracing over Eddie’s features with a frown.

Eddie shakes his head, shifting forward in an attempt to wake up. “No, I’m fine. Got to keep you company.”

Richie smiles and taps Eddie’s hand where he’s got the arm rests in a death grip. His fingers unclench at the gentle touch. “I’m not the one that was getting shot at earlier. Why do you think you’ve got the window seat? I’ll keep an eye out, I promise. It’s my job.”

Tipping his head back against the cushioned seat, Eddie sighs. “Not sure we have jobs anymore, Rich.”

“Well, then, it’s my pleasure.”

Eddie’s too exhausted to think clearly about all this. Even though the other flights were long, he didn’t allow himself to sleep, hyper-vigilant in the wake of so many things going wrong. While he shifts around to get more comfortable in his seat, Richie taps off the overhead light. It leaves Richie’s laptop as the only light source, bathing them both in blue. Their upper arms press together in the confined space, warmth and comfort spreading between them.

The cocoon of darkness is already making him relax. Eddie rests his temple against the cushions so he can watch Richie work. “What about you?”

Richie shakes his head. “I’ve got a steady supply of caffeine to keep me going until Bangkok.”

Another yawn slips out, and Eddie knows that even if he wants to fight it, his body is shutting down. “That’s eleven hours from now.”

“Then in eleven hours, I’ll sleep.” Richie’s arm presses just a touch firmer against Eddie’s, and Eddie presses back without thinking. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Eddie drops off to the tapping of keys before the plane even takes off. He dreams of a warm hand, fingers twining with his own.

\---

Thirty-three hours after leaving Sapienza, Eddie and Richie arrive at the Himmapan Hotel in Bangkok, Thailand. As far as Eddie can tell, Richie has been awake the entire time.

Eddie forces food down Richie’s throat as soon as they’re off the plane, then gets them safely checked into the hotel. Apparently the more tired Richie is the more pliant he becomes, because Eddie basically manhandles him the whole way. He’s barely aware of their surroundings, leaning heavily against Eddie as he fights the keycard to open their suite. Stumbling in, Richie cracks a joke about coconuts that doesn’t even make sense before face-planting onto the bed and promptly passing out.

“You earned it, buddy,” Eddie murmurs, though it’s probably unnecessary. He could belt a power ballad and Richie wouldn’t hear a note.

Eddie lingers at the foot of the bed for a few minutes and watches the gentle rise and fall of Richie’s back as his breathing evens out. His loose limbs sprawl out like a starfish washed ashore. He didn’t even take off his shoes. At least that’s something Eddie can remedy, he thinks, tugging the highlighter yellow converse off first one foot, then the next, revealing mix-matched socks. He smirks at the one on the left. Little pomeranians chasing hearts. Cute.

Securing their suite takes some time. There’s only one large bed—a fact that Eddie is not allowing himself to worry about, because he is an adult and can share a bed with another man without having a breakdown like a prepubescent teen, especially when that man is dead to the world—so Eddie busies himself investigating every other nook and cranny in the room for bugs. And he does mean in every sense of the word, both electronic and biologic. Bedbugs are more common than you’d think, and he’s stayed in enough hotels over the years to spot the signs a mile away.

Once he’s sure there’s nothing threatening lurking within the confines of their room, Eddie takes a walk. He’s reluctant to leave Richie unguarded, but the man hasn’t moved an inch since hitting the mattress and Eddie is confident enough in Richie’s abilities to believe him when he says they’re safe here. Besides, getting a lay of the land always makes him feel more secure on a mission. And now, his life is the mission.

It feels good to stretch his legs after being cooped up on airplanes for over a day, and the Himmapan Hotel is a beautiful enough locale to be stuck in. He makes a circuit of the grounds before finding himself in the gardens. Late afternoon sun filters down through the palm trees and Eddie commandeers a bench just for himself, out of sight of the other tourists enjoying the day. It’s the perfect place to sit and think.

Eddie has never been one for politics of any sort, much less the intricate nuances of the world of assassination. He takes jobs and he carries them out because he’s good at it, and as long as they aren’t killing kids he generally doesn’t pay too much attention to the details. Sure, he feels better taking out some human trafficker or corrupt politician—and Richie knows that, has picked up that Eddie puts his best work into hits that have meaning and goes out of his way to make sure his contracts meet higher standards—but he’s not paid to weigh morality. He doesn’t know who D.E.R.R.I.E.’s enemies are, though they’ve surely made plenty. Hell, Eddie alone has racked himself up a laundry list of groups that would want to see him drawn and quartered if they only knew who Kestrel was. He doesn’t even know where to start narrowing it down. Richie was the one that kept his finger on the pulse of their world so that Eddie didn’t have to, and even he didn’t see this coming. Whoever did this is smart and resourceful and  _ knows _ them. Knows them well enough to get to Stan, untouchable Stan, who might be the most paranoid man he’s ever met. The thought makes Eddie’s skin crawl.

Only now, in the quiet of a tropical garden half a world away from home, does it really hit Eddie what they’re up against. How few of them are left. D.E.R.R.I.E.’s gone. Whatever they manage to salvage from all this, it won’t be like it was before. If there’s anything left worth saving.

He feels lost, small and useless in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a kid puffing on an inhaler that he didn’t actually need. Phantom pains tighten his lungs. He’s been setting aside his own worries since Sapienza, wholly focused on keeping him and Richie moving, but now that the job is done those fears rear up and demand attention, now. As his knuckles start to ache from the clenching he didn’t realize he was doing, it dawns on him that it’s been a while since he had a good old fashioned panic attack. Has it been over a year? A record for him. Usually he has someone to talk him through them, but there’s no one around now, no one to keep the intrusive thoughts at bay and they start to build and build into an avalanche  _ no one to help, you always need help, you should have stayed home, stayed safe, Eddie-bear, you’re sick, you’re not strong enough, you’re frail, you’re too weak, you can’t save them, you can’t do anything, you’re going to die, you’re going to get them all killed and it will be all your fault because you’re an ungrateful little boy that _ —

“Shut up, shut up,” Eddie gasps, barely a whisper. Burying his hands in his hair, he pulls at the strands and tries to get his erratic breathing under control. A little voice inside that sounds a lot like Richie’s chimes in: _ Come on, Kaspbrak, don’t fall apart on me now. _

It’s honestly one of his shorter panic attacks, and later, when he thinks about it, he’ll be proud of himself for how quick he pulled himself out of that dark place. In the moment, though, he counts the seconds of his inhales and exhales and hopes no one comes along to investigate his little corner of the garden. He knows enough conversational Thai to greet someone and order food, but explaining why he’s freaking out under a palm tree might be beyond his range.

Falling back on an old technique, one from his early days of therapy, Eddie casts his eyes around for something to focus on. Movement overhead catches his attention, and his eyes track a bird swooping through the garden to land on the decorative stone edging around the trees. It hops along, twitching this way and that, and Eddie’s breathing finally slows when it’s close enough that he can see the flecks of red in its feathers. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it all out in a slow push. “Thanks,” he says to the bird. He watches it a few more moments, then says, “We’re fucked, you know that?”

The bird snaps its head up, looking at who-knows-what, then flies off. “Fuck you too, then,” Eddie adds, watching it soar out of sight.

\---

That night, Eddie has to roll Richie over so there’s enough room to share the bed. After Eddie holds a hand under his nose to check that he’s still breathing.

He gets it. The poor guy was up for almost two days straight; he was bound to crash and crash hard. Now, though, he’s a human-shaped obstacle keeping Eddie from the blankets and a good night’s sleep.

Richie nearly rolls right off the bed when Eddie finally gets traction yanking the comforter and sheets free, and only some quick reflexes keep Richie from taking a nosedive into the carpet. Eddie wrestles with his dead weight until he finally gets Richie settled on his side facing the door, one arm dangling over the edge with his fingers grazing the floor. He doesn’t even stir. “Jesus Christ, what are you, a bear?” Eddie mumbles, slinging the blankets out with Richie now underneath. Wait. Rewind. “Man, am I glad you’re not awake to answer that.”

He makes use of the lavish ensuite bathroom and all its amenities, scrubbing the lingering feeling of  _ airport  _ from his skin that’s been low-key bothering him for days now. There are expensive bottles of beauty products on the shelves, creams and oils and lotions, and he might indulge in testing a few out. One of the perks of the job, and it sure beats the little travel soaps at most hotels. Richie always does his best to put Eddie up in the best of accommodations. Even with all the extras, though, the best part is brushing his teeth and the refreshed feeling it leaves behind.

Snagging one of the complimentary silk robes on the back of the door, he wanders into the bedroom and finds Richie hasn’t so much as moved an inch. The television on the opposite wall is large to the point of obscenity, and despite there being a thousand channels to choose from, Eddie settles for the Weather Channel. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something incredibly soothing about it, the local weather report clicking over every ten minutes to the tune of some smooth jazz. It’s one of Eddie’s go-to sources for background noise, right up there with reruns of  _ How It’s Made _ and  _ The Joys of Painting with Bob Ross.  _

There was only one thing Richie had asked Eddie to do while he caught up on much needed sleep. In the cab on the way to the hotel, Richie had patted the black leather bag that contained his laptop. “Eds. Eddie, baby. Don’t let me forget. Gotta check on Stan tonight. Wake me up, yeah?”

“Dude, there’s no way,” Eddie had replied. The thought of Richie being remotely coherent before nightfall was comical. “You won’t even know what planet you’re on.”

“Someone’s gotta–” And then Richie’s mouth opened like a fucking anaconda, yawning so wide that Eddie could probably see his fillings if he hadn’t already turned his face away in disgust. “–gotta find out when they’ll be here.”

“It’s not gonna be you,” Eddie muttered, wishing he had gum or a breath mint to offer. Of course, Richie was so tired he might fall asleep and choke on it, so maybe not. “Tell me how.”

Richie had forced his eyes open with difficulty and stared at Eddie. “Nuh uh.”

Eddie laughed. This idiot is his handler. “Yuh huh. Come on, it can’t be that hard, your password isn’t _ password _ , is it? 1-2-3-4?”

A wild little giggle had escaped Richie at that. “Fuck you, what kind of amateur do you take me for?”

But Richie only put up a token resistance in the end, sensible for once, and gave Eddie the simple version of what he needed to do. Now, Eddie settles with his back to the headboard, Richie’s computer open and booting up in his lap. Even with Richie’s express permission, this feels elicit. Especially with Richie unconscious,  _ right there _ . He glances over and, yep, there he is, shoulder rising and falling with every breath.

A nondescript screen with an empty white field is the only thing that comes up, and Eddie sighs. “Asshole,” he mutters, typing in the password:  _ hAwt!MAMASonia!89.  _ The desktop immediately begins loading and Eddie glares at Richie’s back. “I hope you know I’m making you change that.”

The same desktop he saw on the plane appears on screen, and this time Eddie stops to really look at the background picture. Richie looks so  _ young. _ Early, maybe mid-twenties. His black hair is longer, wilder. His shoulders are just as broad but he’s got less bulk to him, like a Great Dane puppy still growing into its limbs. No scars on his neck and jaw; this was taken before his injury. He’s got his mouth wide open and pleased like he just said something crass, probably the reason the other three in the picture are in various states of laughter. The glasses perched on his face have the same thick lenses as his current pair, but instead of bulky tortoiseshell, these are completely round. Young Richie would wear John Lennon-style glasses. A hipster before being a hipster was cool. Hipster-ception.

Stan’s hair is longer, too. Eddie doesn’t see Stan in-person that often, not since he completed his training. He never saw Stan like this, blonde curls a mess on his head and laughing, really laughing, not that half-laugh half-sigh that he’s known for. He had a bit more baby fat on his cheeks back then. Still dressed in ridiculous sweater vests like an old man. If Richie was channeling a Beatle, Stan was channeling Mister Rogers.

Now he gets a good look at the other two in the picture, wishing he had more than an image to go on. There isn’t much to tell. Two generic white guys with brown hair. One of them, the shorter and slimmer of the two if the angles aren’t lying, is elbowing Richie in the side, leaning forward to laugh at whatever Richie said. The other is tucked into the corner of the booth with his shoulders rounded inward, a quiet smile on his face as he waves at the camera with his free hand.

God. Of course he knows that Richie and Stan are people with their own lives, but it’s so weird to see visual evidence of it. They’re people with friends, that have a history, real people beyond these jobs that eat pizza and hang out. That gangly young man wearing a The Doors t-shirt with too-big hands and an even bigger personality is the same guy currently sleeping with his spine curled against Eddie’s hip. Crazy.

Hidden among the scattered icons is a little minimalist green turtle simply labeled Maturin, just like Richie said there would be. It logs on automatically when he clicks the program open, showing a contacts list with only three usernames: HiHoSilver, Haystack, and TheMan, the last of which is highlighted with new messages. Another plain text box pops up with a continuing conversation.

_ To TheMan (PST 12:04:45): don’t you think I know that? what do you want me to do about it? _

_ From TheMan (PST 12:05:16): It’s my fault. I’ll take the blame, they won’t be mad at you. _

_ To TheMan (PST 12:05:22): bullshit _

_ To TheMan (PST 12:05:28): it’s not your fault _

_ To TheMan (PST 12:05:38): well maybe a little your fault but i could have not listened, since when do I listen to you? _

_ From TheMan (PST 12:06:39): I’m still sorry I put you in this position. We should have done things differently. _

_To TheMan (PST 12:07:01):_ _i made my decision and i’ve got to live with it_

_ From TheMan (PST 12:07:49): Don’t be an idiot. They’re going to be so happy to see you again. Ben will cry. _

_ To TheMan (PST 12:10:32): don’t tell me that! jesus i’m going to cry _

_ From TheMan (PST 12:11:13): You’re already crying aren’t you. _

_ To TheMan (PST 12:11:48): never cried a day in my life don’t know what tears are _

_ To TheMan (PST 15:12:39): kestrel and i land in about 8 hours, sending you coordinates _

_ To TheMan (PST 15:13:10): give me an ETA when you can. going dark _

_ To TheMan (PST 15:13:33): stay safe, man. love u _

_ From TheMan (PST 20:26:19): All parties enroute. 2PM local time. You’d better actually be sleeping, you know how you get. Love you too. _

Eddie tries to scroll up but the program won’t budge, only showing the tail-end of the conversation and no more. Damn it. Why is it every clue with Richie only opens up more questions than answers? What decision are they talking about? What blame? Who is Ben?

He rereads the conversation, committing it to memory, eyes lingering on that last line. Richie has said that he and Stan have known each other a long time. He often talks about their director fondly. They must be close.

No. He’s not doing this. Jealousy is an ugly color, and he has no reason to wear it. Everyone in the agency knows Stan is head-over-heels for Patty. Hell, Eddie’s never even heard the two of them talk to each other and he knows that. So what if Stan and Richie are close? It’s not like he wants Richie to be lonely without him. He’s not that much of an asshole. He’s Richie’s friend, his  _ partner, _ and if Eddie has it his way, maybe more. There’s nothing to be jealous of, if anything Stan is the one that will be jealous of  _ him. _

Eddie raises his eyes and blinks at the  _ Weather on the Ones _ and the cycle of green splotches moving on the doppler radar map of the Bangkok region. “Okay, that was melodramatic, even for me.”

Curiosity gets the better of him when presented with the other two names, so he clicks on them, one after the other. Unlike Stan’s, these usernames have no meaning to Eddie. And, unlike Stan’s, there are no conversations attached. There’s no previous correspondence with HiHoSilver or Haystack. Just blank windows. Like Richie added them and never reached out.

Eddie closes the chat program down so the display is back to the crowded desktop. God, if he didn’t think he would fuck up something important, Eddie would spend all night organizing this thing. Knowing Richie, he’s got some sort of convoluted organization that only his chaotic mind understands. Most of the programs aren’t ones he recognizes, though he does smirk when he sees Richie’s renamed a few to things like  _ Skynet _ or  _ HAL, _ the fucking movie nerd. The icon for a Sims game is down in one corner. Off to the right is a spreadsheet that catches his eye.

_ Kestrel. _

Dark brown eyes drift from the screen over to the slope of Richie’s shoulder. Reaching out, Eddie gives him a little nudge. Not a peep.

Is it really snooping if the file is labeled with your name on it?

When the spreadsheet opens, a startled laugh sneaks up on Eddie and bursts out of him before he can slap a hand over his mouth.

That motherfucker.

_ Kestrel’s Kill Count - All Time Score _ is in big, bold letters at the top of the chart, followed by an itemized list of actions and assigned point values. It has everything. Every stab, every bullet, every arbitrary point that Richie has ever jokingly assigned Eddie’s very dangerous job. The damn thing is color-coded. He’s got formulae worked into cells that calculate combos. “Oh my God, Richie, you fucking nerd,” Eddie whispers, scrolling down through the long list. There are dates, and a section for notes where Richie has added some color commentary to things that he thought were particularly interesting.  _ Never going to look at an umbrella the same way again,  _ and _ remember to buy him a mani/pedi, he’s earned it after cleaning that mess,  _ and  _ can’t say I thought I’d get to add Death by Hippo to the list, but here we are. _

All the way at the very bottom is a row labeled  _ High Score: 17,533. _

Richie was telling the truth.

Eddie clicks the laptop shut and sets it aside. It’s early yet, the sky outside their windows sill the deep saturated purple of twilight before sinking into the black of night, but Eddie sets an alarm for the morning and switches the lights off. He lays on his side facing Richie, who sleeps on, oblivious to Eddie having a quiet revelation under the blue glow of the five-day forecast.

Eddie doesn’t care that D.E.R.R.I.E. is gone. He cared about the people—and sometimes not even them—but the organization is nothing to him. And he doesn’t really care that whoever these people are came after him personally.

Wait, no, that’s not entirely true. He does care, but more because of how irritating and inconvenient this has all been. He’s not going to cry himself to sleep tonight because he might have wronged the right people or he hurt someone he shouldn’t. He’s a careful son of a bitch, particular to a fault, and he would really like to keep on living his life, but he’s not all that concerned with his own self-preservation. If he was, he would have stuck to his civilian identity as a risk analyst and worried his life away until he reached the average life expectancy for males in North America, if he was lucky. Instead, he’s a hitman. Some part of him thrives on the danger while having some semblance of control over how he dies, and it’s fucked up but he’s been through enough therapy to be okay with it.

But.

But, they went after Bev and Mike. Bev, who clawed her way tooth and nail through the hell that was her childhood and marriage to abusive men. Who finally found her way in life. Who stopped running away from everything and finally found something worth running toward. And Mike, who has worked harder than any man alive, determined to make something of himself, determined to go somewhere. Nothing was going to stop him from finding his paradise.

They went after Stan. Stan, who sees people for who they are and who they’re capable of being, who saw this neurotic mess of a human and somehow saw potential. Who plucked Eddie from a tedious existence and gave him a purpose. And Patty, so sweet and helpful and happy to be a part of something bigger, who makes Stan light up without even being there.

Eddie’s friends. These people went after his friends.

And Richie. Richie Tozier, former agent-turned-handler, who can’t answer one mystery without three more popping up to take its place. He’s like a goddamn hydra. Who must have scrubbed every scrap of evidence of Agent Pigeon’s existence, because Eddie’s never once heard of him or seen his name on any of D.E.R.R.I.E.’s old mission files. Who has clearly been hurt before, and not just physically. Eddie can recognize a man with trust issues; he looks at one in the mirror every day, and knows some scars aren’t visible.

Richie, who is afraid to get hurt again, but is slowly letting Eddie in anyway. Who goes above and beyond what the job asks of him, who listens to everything Eddie says and everything he can’t find the words for. Who makes Eddie laugh at the most inopportune times. Who keeps a stupid spreadsheet on his computer for literal years just to keep up a running joke that he knows distracts Eddie when things are getting tough. Who, if circumstances were different, would have sat with Eddie on a sunny afternoon in Sapienza and shared a cup of lemon gelato, because it’s Eddie’s favorite.

After they killed Eddie, they were going to go after Richie. They wanted to kill Richie.

Eddie closes his eyes and pushes forward across the sheets, curling in close enough so he can rest his forehead against Richie’s back. He breathes in slowly, taking in Richie’s scent hidden under the layers of sweat. He should be grossed out. He’s not. “They’re going to wish they’d killed me,” he promises in a whisper against Richie’s shoulder blade. Feeling the muscles move with each inhale and exhale. Evidence that Richie is here, alive and with him, where he belongs. Before Eddie can second-guess himself, he presses a kiss to the curve of Richie’s spine. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by, say hi, and rant about randomness with me on Twitter @ThreeCatDesigns and tumblr @wyntera. Happy reading!


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